Wrong
by OxOx-Megz-OxOx
Summary: John is alone without Sherlock, and Sherlock without John. Will a new post on John's blog give Sherlock the courage to return? Post- Reichenbach! Rated T just in case. JOHNLOCK! (but not too much) Multi-chapter!
1. Chapter One: Empty

**Sherlock: Wrong**

**Pairing: John/Sherlock (Johnlock), but only light :D**

**Summary: John is alone without Sherlock, and Sherlock without John. Will a new post on John's blog give Sherlock the courage to return? Post Reichenbach! **

**Rating: T just in case of language!**

**Status: In progress!**

**Will be multi-chapter, but I have no idea how many exactly!**

* * *

**Hi!**

**So, this is my first Sherlock fic, so go easy on me please guys! I started watching Sherlock about . . . less than a week? A few days ago, really. Anyway, I just finished watching it tonight, and as soon as I saw it, I had to write this, it was too sad! I totally ship Johnlock, and for John not to know that Sherlock's still alive . . . it breaks my poor shipper heart! :'(**

**Anyway, here we go!**

**Megz**

**DISCLAIMER: Trust me, if I owned Sherlock, we wouldn't all have to wait this long!**

* * *

_"I . . . I . . . I can't come down, so we'll . . . we'll just have to do it like this . . . " _

_I looked up at my best friend, standing on the rooftop. He looked so hopeless, so lost. This man had saved me, in so many ways. Before him, what was I? What had my life been? An ex-army doctor with some form of post traumatic stress disorder, and a fake limp. My life had consisted of getting up in the morning, getting ready like everybody else, going to see my psychiatrist, going for a walk, then going back to my bedroom. At night my head was full of dreams and memories from the army, and what I'd seen. And then Sherlock came along._

_"What's going on?"_

_He knew me. Right from the start. He knew my darkest secrets, though I knew practically none of his. But somehow, I didn't mind. It felt good that someone knew how I felt, and understood me. He always knew if something was wrong, and could always guess exactly what I was thinking. And sometimes I wished I could be like him, or at least that I could just figure him out. Figure out how he did it, and what went on inside his head. He knew about Harriet, he knew my fears, and what made me laugh. He knew all about Afghanistan, and knew about me getting shot. He knew things no one else did, or at least nothing that anyone else bothered to find out._

_"An apology. It's all true."_

_Watching him now, all of that just went away. All I could think was; _Don't jump. Don't jump. Please don't jump_. I knew what he was trying to tell me though, but I refused to believe it. Sherlock was a good man, and he was true. He could never lie to me. _

_"Wh-what?"_

_I could still hear my voice shaking on the phone though. I looked up at him, and all I could see in his eyes was fear. He didn't want to jump, I know he didn't. But then why was he doing it?_

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

_"Why are you saying this?"_

_"I'm a fake."_

_I knew that was a lie. There was no way Sherlock could be a fake. He was the most honest person I'd ever met. There was nothing that could convince me that he would ever tell me a lie. We'd had that conversation. We knew just knew each other like that. 100%._

_"Sherlock . . . "_

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly . . . In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

_"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"You could."_

_I heard him laugh a little on the other side of the phone, but it was so bitter. It wasn't like Sherlock at all. I knew he wouldn't do this. There was no way. Sherlock didn't care what anybody thought of him, he'd made that clear in the past few days. If he was actually going to this, he'd have to have a very good reason. _

_He didn't want to jump, it was clear from his voice and body language. After being with Sherlock for so long, I was starting to get the hang of his "Science of Deduction". His voice was shaky and nervous, and he was shifting his weight slightly, like he was stalling. Anyone who really wanted to jump off a roof wouldn't be acting like this, they would have probably done it already. _

_"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

_"No. All right. Stop it now."_

_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."_

_"All right."_

_I raised my hand up towards him, in a surrender. There was obviously a reason that he didn't want me to move. He wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. And I could tell from his voice that it was. It was starting to crack slightly, like he was about to cry. I knew he was going to do it soon, not long now. In a matter of seconds, I was about to watch my best friend jump off a roof to kill himself, and as far as I knew, there was nothing I could do about it._

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call - it's . . . it's my note. That's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?"_

_I had to ask, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. That was his suicide note, that phone call. That phone call to me. My voice was the last thing he would ever hear, the last thing he would ever know besides falling. I wanted to offer him some touching last words, or something that would convince him not to do it. I wanted to tell him how much he'd changed my life. I was nothing without him, and that was about to happen again. I knew in that moment that when Sherlock died, my life would just return to what it'd been before. Lonely. Alone. With nothing but memories. I wanted to tell him how much he meant to me, but I was frozen, stood rigid. Because I knew he was about to do it. No words, no matter how much I willed them, would come out, and all I could do was watch._

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"No. Don't." _

_I managed to find my voice, but only to murmur those two words. But it was to late. I watched Sherlock throw the phone behind him, and take in a deep breath. He spread his arms out wide, and leaned over the roof slightly. That was enough for the gravity to pull him over the edge. I watched as his arms flailed wildly, trying to slow himself down. I knew there was nothing I could do, but I just felt so utterly hopeless._

_"No."_

_**SHERLOCK!**_

* * *

John Watson shot up in his bed. His breath was coming in gasps, and he could feel his heart beating fast in his chest. It had been almost a year now since Sherlock . . . since he died. Almost a _year, _and he still couldn't even think about it without feeling . . . empty. That was how he felt most of the time now, empty. Every time he thought of his best friend, or his death, he just felt a dull pain in his chest. Without him, everyday was just . . . it felt wrong. There was no adventure, no spark, no unsolved cases that only Sherlock could crack.

John got out of his bed slowly, and buried his head in his hands. He still had a hard time believing that Sherlock would ever leave him. When he was . . . when he'd been alive, they'd been almost inseparable. Every case, they did it together, almost everywhere one went, the other followed. Of course, there were times . . . Sherlock never really let him in. John wished now that he'd tried harder to make him. Sherlock kept a lot of things to himself, often when it involved feelings. John sometimes tried to remember if he'd ever even seen Sherlock cry, or show any emotions.

When Sherlock was around him though, he'd never shown any emotions, really. Yes, they'd laughed together many times, and there were a few times when Sherlock had been particularly angry at someone. The _only _time John had seen Sherlock cry, was . . . that day. The day that he fell. And John wasn't even sure anymore of what he'd seen that day. Sometimes he wondered when he woke up, if it was all a dream, and if Sherlock would be waiting for him, sat in his armchair. Oh how he just wanted to hear his voice again, or to hear him play the violin.

It had taken John a long time to go back to the flat, but Mrs. Hudson had threatened to sell it if he didn't. Coming back though, had been the most painful experience of his life. To see all of Sherlock's things, all exactly where he left them, just all over the flat and floor. Mrs. Hudson had wanted him to throw it all out, she'd said it would be more painful if he kept it, having to see it every day. But somehow, John just couldn't bring himself to do it. Those small possessions were the only things that he had left of his friend, and if he got rid of them . . . he would really be gone.

He'd had to move it though, because it was starting to clutter up the flat. It was all in Sherlock's room though, in neatly packed boxes. Many people had offered to do it for him, but John had insisted on doing it himself. He didn't want anyone else touching Sherlock's things, he knew what he could be . . . what he _was _like about that sort of thing. All the boxes were neatly labelled, and everything in them was almost completely untouched. It was almost as if John was still expecting him to come back. As if one day, he would just walk back through the front door. He would stride in, as if nothing had ever happened. He would take off his scarf, and pull his coat collar back down.

He would tell John of some new case that he'd found, and that they needed to get there urgently. And John would go, with no explanation needed. John dreamed every day of that moment. But he knew deep down inside that Sherlock wasn't going to come back this time. He still believed though, that maybe he would come back. It seemed too . . . final, his death. There was no reason, nothing. John knew that if Sherlock were really going to die, he would have told him. And he definitely would have said goodbye properly, not through a bloody phone call. It just wasn't Sherlock.

Everyday, John thought the same things over and over. He replayed Sherlock's final moments in his head every minute of every day, trying to figure it out. And every time, it felt like he was only just a step away from getting the answer, just close enough to touch it. But it then became to complicated, and he had to give up. He had several reasons why Sherlock might have killed himself, and many reasons and motives behind them. Not one of them though, even seemed like something Sherlock would ever do.

John took a deep breath, and took his laptop off the bedside table. He opened it up, and went to his blog. He opened one of his most recent entries, and read it in his head.

"_I still don't understand why he would do it. Why he would leave me like this. Sherlock was my best friend, and we shared almost everything together. If he killed himself without telling me, he had a good reason. I just can't seem to figure out what that reason is. I have a few theories obviously, but most of them barely even make sense . . . __  
_

_1. Sherlock simply couldn't take everyone thinking that he was a fake. It was too much for him, and he decided to kill himself. He lied to me because he thought I might as well think the same as the rest of the world. I doubt that though because Sherlock didn't care what anyone else thought, and also, he would never lie to me._

_2. Moriarty made him. I don't know how, but, before Moriarty killed himself, or . . . or Sherlock killed him, Moriarty threatened him. I have no idea what someone like James Moriarty could hold over Sherlock, but it must have been something pretty big. I still think this theory is unlikely too, because it still doesn't explain why Sherlock would lie to me. And it also doesn't make much sense how Moriarty could still hold something over Sherlock after he died._

_3. Sherlock somehow managed to fake his death. I know that seems even **more **unlikely, but he was Sherlock Holmes. He was brilliant. But why would he need to fake his death in the first place?_

_4. And this is the theory that I am choosing not to believe at all. Even though, for some reason, I am still willing to count it. Sherlock was telling the truth. He **was** a fraud, a fake, even. He **did **invent Moriarty, and he **did **lie to me. But this theory, I find the most unlikely, but, also, the most upsetting. _

_And that's it really. I know I'm not writing on here as much as I used to, but . . . I don't know what to say anymore. Without Sherlock, my life is just dull. There is nothing for me to talk about, nothing for me to share. _

_Nothing happens to me."_

John set the laptop down on the bed, but kept it open. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the ridiculous theories. He didn't believe any of them, not really. It just helped him to think that he had _any _idea why Sherlock jumped off of that building. Suddenly, John was struck with something. He had the instant desire to vent his feelings again. He picked up the laptop again, and began typing rapidly.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat in his very small flat, surrounded by silence. The only comfort he had was his thoughts. For many years, his thoughts were all he ever needed. In fact, any interruption to his thoughts majorly bothered him. But now, now that he was alone . . . it felt . . . wrong. Without someone to tell about them, his thoughts became all jumbled, and often didn't make much sense. Could it be possible that he was missing human companionship? A friend? John?

No. Sherlock had always worked better alone, and that was how it was supposed to be. Anyone else was a distraction, a waste of time, not even worth thinking about . . . But John . . . Sherlock knew he had left him for his own good, he would've been killed if he hadn't jumped. And he couldn't have John's death on his mind for the rest of his life. Sherlock shook his head at these thoughts. How could he even begin to think of John as "just a distraction"? It was wrong, John had been so much more than that. He'd like to think of him as a friend, but he had been so much more than that.

John had always been there for him, always helped him, whether he needed it or not. Always forgiven him, even if he hadn't deserved it. John was one of the very few people in the world who _still _believed in him, even after all this time. Sherlock knew that from reading his blog. He knew he probably shouldn't do that to himself, but he couldn't help it. _Not _knowing was even worse. He didn't read John's blog _all _the time, but it . . . helped him. It helped to know that there was at least one person who hadn't given up hope. Who believed in him _so _much, even after his "death".

Sherlock hated to admit it, but he _did _miss John. Very much so, in fact. He hated not being able to go back to his flat. He hated living in this small rented place. He hated that his best friend thought he was dead. The only thing that kept him from giving up was the idea that, once it was over, once he had killed all of Moriarty's assassins, he could finally go back home. He knew it wouldn't be easy, it would take a long time for John to trust him again, and an even longer time to explain to the rest of the world that he wasn't dead. He didn't even care about them thinking he was a fraud any more. To Sherlock, there was only one opinion that mattered.

It had been a few days now since he had killed the last of Moriarty's assassins, and since then, he had spent his days trying to figure out how to return. He was almost surprised at how excited he was becoming at the thought of seeing John again. But he had to make sure he did this right. And at the right time. This was vitally important. This wasn't something that he could solve with a simple text message, or email. This needed to be done in person, yes, but Sherlock had no idea what to say. Well, he'd never been in this situation before. How does a person just . . . show up, after being dead for almost a year? How do you even begin to make up for that?

Sherlock sighed, and picked up his laptop off the table, placing it on his lap. He quickly typed in his password, and opened up John's blog. He had it as his homepage, of course, since it was the only thing he even bothered to use his laptop for anymore. He saw instantly that there was a new entry from . . . two hours ago, actually. And it was called . . . "_Dear Sherlock" _Well, this particularly interested him. He opened up the entry, and sat back to read it. And what he read very much caught the young detective's curiosity.

_"Dear Sherlock,_

_How could you do this to me? Leave me all alone like this? You were my best friend, and, for a long time, you were the only thing that . . . the only reason I had to . . . you get the idea. Before you, my life was nothing, worthless. I might as well have ended it for all it mattered. And then, you came along and . . . you changed me, Sherlock. And I owe you so much for that. You gave my life meaning again. All of a sudden, I had a purpose. You gave me that Sherlock, and you will never know how much that meant to me._

_There are so many things I never got to tell you, you know? So many times, I've dreamt of you coming back. And I could tell you how empty my life was without you. Because it is, Sherlock, it's empty. My life is worth nothing without you in it. Just ten more seconds, that's all I ask. Just ten more seconds with you. To . . . to hear your voice, and to tell you . . . . I love you, Sherlock. I think deep down I always have. And now you'll never know. I just wish . . . I just wish I'd realized sooner, you know? God, I'd give anything to tell you. _

_But I still believe. In you, I mean. I still believe that maybe, one day, you'll come back. And do you know what? Even if you did, I wouldn't care. And you wouldn't have to explain, I promise. And I wouldn't be mad. Because . . . I'd have you back. And that's all I want. That's all I'll ever want, until the end of my days._

_You told me once that you weren't a hero. But, you are. You were my hero. You brought me back to life, Sherlock. And I saw you save so many lives. **So **many. So, could I just ask you to do one more thing for me?_

_Come back. _

_Because I honestly don't think I can carry on if you don't. _

_John."_

Sherlock stared blankly at the computer screen. Trying to process what he had just read. John, John Watson, _loved _him. Him. Sherlock Holmes.

All of a sudden, after days of thinking about it, Sherlock finally knew what he had to do. He closed down the laptop, put it carefully in it's bag, and put on his scarf and coat. He glanced quickly at his reflection in the mirror, flicking a stray hair out of the way, and started for the door. Because, all of a sudden, he knew _exactly _what to say.

* * *

**Cliffhanger, I know, but I promise I will update soon, because I can't wait! But anyway, what did you think of this chapter? And how many chapters do you think I should make this? Questions, questions!**

**REVIEW PLEASE! :D**


	2. Chapter Two: Progress

**Hey guys!**

**Firstly, I would just like to explain why it's taken me so long to update . . . It was my birthday on Thursday (4th October), so I didn't have much time. I did however, write this up on my iPod, and now, finally, I have managed to finish this chapter. If it hadn't have been my birthday, I would have updated a lot sooner, I promise. :)**

**Thank you so much to JustBeAQueen, 3star, Fanficaddict and Pinlie for your reviews! It means a lot to know that people are reading this! And to my followers of course! I have just had a lot of ideas of how I could make this into a full story, with maybe . . . 10 chapters at least? But let me know what you guys think. This chapter though, will still not be the end! So sorry if you were looking for a one-shot or two-chapter story!**

**Enjoy!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Johnlock would be canon. End. Of. Story.**

* * *

John Watson sat in his psychiatrist's office, looking at his hands. All he could hear was the clock ticking, over and over. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock . . . _The noise of clocks in his flat sometimes drove him to the brink of insanity. It seemed so wrong that the world was still turning, yet, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, lay dead in the ground. How many lives had he saved, and yet his death had effected no one? People were just carrying on with their lives, every day the same as the next. And yet . . . John's world had just . . . stopped. It was like his heart had been ripped from his chest, and he was hollow. But no one could see.

Well, it was more likely that they didn't care. There was a given grieving period, and John's had finished a long time ago. People expected him to be over it. Eleven months was long enough, surely? But to John, no measure of time would be long enough for him to be "over it". Of course though, no one seemed to understand that. John could accept that though, because they didn't _know. _They couldn't know. How could they? How could they know that, the two years John had spent with Sherlock, had been the best of his life? How could they know that, in John's eyes, Sherlock was the best man he'd ever known? How could they know that he'd loved him? And loved him still?

_Tap. Tap. Tap. _John could see Paula, his psychiatrist, was becoming impatient. She was tapping her pen against the clipboard, absentmindedly, but staring at him, waiting for answers. He knew why she'd called him here. She read his blog, obviously, so she must know. She wanted him to open up, finally explain why he'd not been able to "get over" Sherlock's death. She wanted him to tell her so she could _help _him. But to be honest, John found it quite hard to put into words the way that he loved Sherlock. He found it hard to even put it into thought.

John thought back to when Sherlock had been . . . alive. Thinking of things that he could associate with . . . love. Well, for a start, there were these . . . moments. When Sherlock would look up from his work, or whatever he was doing, and just give John the most . . . intense stare. He would bring his palms together in front of his face and just . . . Just look at him with those cold, ice-blue eyes. That stare shook John to his very core.

And then there was the times he let his caring side show. The few times he just let it slip, and John got a glimpse of the _real_ Sherlock. And he was a caring person, deep down, a real human being. He felt just like everybody else did. He cared. He cared about Molly, he cared about Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. He even . . . especially, he cared about John. He knew he did. John had seen his face when Moriarty had strapped those explosives to him. It was exactly the same reaction he would've had.

And that moment, on one of Sherlock's last nights, when he took John's hand. That's when he'd really known, he supposed. Because it just felt so . . . _right_, so natural. He'd felt his heart skip a beat at the contact, and, if he thought about it, he'd felt quite reluctant to let go. The way he acted, as well. The way he turned his collar up when he knew he was right, or just when he was feeling confident. He would just give that smile. That smile . . . what John wouldn't give to see it again. And just to hear his voice one more time . . . so charming, so warm, so sure. Sherlock had been the only solid thing in his life, and he was gone.

John sighed. How could he even begin to explain that? How could he make Paula understand? Then again, would she understand? Had she, had anyone, loved someone like that? He doubted it. And even if they had, it was even more unlikely that they would know what it was like to lose them. John was just a out to open his mouth and say that, when Paula began to speak for the first time in the twenty minutes they'd had.

"John." Paula cleared her throat, setting her pen and clipboard on the table next to her, and setting her hands in her lap. She looked at him knowingly, but he just stared blankly back. "John," she tried again, "I'm sure you know why I've called you here, I mean, you must have wrote that blog entry for a reason. Do you think, that you may be ready to talk about it? . . . About Sherlock?"

John could already feel tears in his eyes at the mention of his name. Sometimes, he wondered if Sherlock had ever been real at all, or if he'd just imagined it all. Like he'd said before he . . . before he jumped . . . Surely, no one could be that clever? That charming? That . . . brilliant? It was true that John had _never_ met anyone like Sherlock in his life before, and he doubted he ever would again. Could it be possible that he'd made him up? That those two years were just a result of his post-traumatic stress disorder? After all that time on his own, had his tired mind just made up exactly what he wanted? Someone who could show him what the world had to offer? Someone who could give him hope again? Who woke him up at ungodly hours of the morning with his bloody violin?

But, that theory didn't make much sense in the end. Because if John had invented Sherlock, that would mean that he'd have had to invent Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs Hudson, Moriarty, and all the cases that Sherlock had solved. No, if John had just wanted to create a friend for himself, he would've just left it at that. There would have been no need for so many complications. And if he'd created Sherlock to be his friend, there was no way he would have made him kill himself. If he'd made him up, why not make him stay with him?

No, Sherlock was real. And John was happy to know that. Because, even though he was gone, it was better to have had him in his life, than not at all. Even in the state he was now, his life had been better for having that bloody magnificent man in it.

"I . . . maybe, I think, I mean . . . " John mumbled, picking at some loose threading on the sofa. "I . . . I want to, but I . . . I can't . . . . I can't find the words, I guess . . . I just . . . "

"It's okay, in your own time, John . . ." Paula replied, reassuring John. He wasn't really sure when he'd turned into this mumbling, nervous wreck, probably right after Sherlock died. He could barely form a sentence anymore without his voice cracking with tears. Especially when the subject was Sherlock. He could try to find the words, but they always seemed to escape him. It was like . . . not only had Sherlock taken his heart, but he'd also taken his voice, too.

"I . . . I . . . I know I need to say it . . . out loud, I mean, but . . . um, I . . . " John whispered, and coughed into his hand. He had to do this. Paula had told him before, if he managed to say the things that he hadn't been able to before, it would make it easier to start getting over Sherlock's death. He wanted to say it, he needed to. If he said it out loud . . . it would make it more real. And maybe . . . maybe if Sherlock was . . . maybe if he was looking down, he could . . . he would hear it? John almost laughed at himself. If Sherlock was looking down, he wouldn't be watching John. It was far more likely that he'd be looking down on murder cases, correcting their mistakes for the fun of it, and then cursing because no one could hear him being brilliant.

_"I loved him."_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood at the door to his old flat, 221B Baker Street, and took a deep breath. He was just about to do what he should have done a year ago. He straightened his scarf, and adjusted his coat and hair. He knew John probably wouldn't be home, but he could wait. And besides, there was a lot to explain to Mrs Hudson as well. He raised his hand to the knocker, and knocked softly. He hadn't even realized his hands were shaking until he saw his gloved hand in front of him.

He quickly put it back by his side, and waited for his old landlady to come to the door. This was absurd. Sherlock Holmes didn't get nervous. Especially not over a person. People had never mattered to him, not before anyway. Emotions were a weakness, a weakness found on the losing side. At least, that's what he'd told himself before. Before John. He had to admit, as much as John said he owed Sherlock, it was really more the other way round. John could have carried on the way he was, without Sherlock. Yes, he had been alone, but someone would have come along eventually.

But Sherlock, before John, he was so cold, so empty. He spent his days getting thrills from murder cases. What kind of decent human being got his kicks from other people's deaths. No decent human being, that was the answer. When Sherlock thought back to that time, he felt disgusted. Disgusted with himself. The life he'd been living . . . it had hardly been _living _at all. A brother he hardly spoke to, no friends, and living in a cluttered flat by himself. And Molly. Someone who'd always been there for him, and he'd hardly even noticed.

Until John. John showed him so many things, changed him in so many ways. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes had a _friend. _A best friend, even. Someone with whom he could share everything with. They lived together, they solved cases together, they went pretty much everywhere together. And John accepted him. That was one of the things that got Sherlock when they first met. In stead of people usually being annoyed, or freaked out by him, John was just . . . amazed. And that made Sherlock happy. That had been his first clue that John was different.

And then, somehow, they just got close. It was an instant connection, him and John. An understanding. Sherlock was there to introduce John to new things, and to convince him to try them. He was there to open his eyes to possibilities that John had never considered before. And John was there to teach Sherlock how to be human.

_"Sh - Sherlock?" _Mrs Hudson whispered, as she looked at him with wide eyes. Sherlock took the opportunity to look at the woman who'd been something close to a friend to him. She'd not really changed in the past year. Emotionally, yes, but not physically. Her hair was neat and tidy, Sherlock guessed recently cut. She hadn't bothered to put her make-up on today, and judging by how clean her eyes and lips were, hadn't put it on in a while. Her nails were short and messy, suggesting that she had been biting them, and there were dark rings under her eyes. Sherlock guessed she hadn't been sleeping too well for . . . quite a few weeks now. He could see that she was blinking a lot, suggesting that she was just about to cry, and she was trembling. _"Is . . . is it really you? . . . "_

Sherlock didn't even bother to explain or say anything, he just took hold of Mrs Hudson's shoulder, and pulled her into a hug. He held the elderly woman tightly as she cried into his shirt. He wasn't usually one for these sorts of things, but he'd heard the pleading and brokenness in her voice. He stroked her hair gently, and made comforting _shh _noises. He'd seen John do this with others before, and it seemed to work for him. Thinking of John, only one thought crossed Sherlock's mind; _If only he could see me now._

* * *

John sat in the back of the taxi, looking out of the window. The rest of his conversation with Paula had been easier. He had been able to open up to her a little bit more about Sherlock, though not fully. Still, it was progress. And that was what therapy was about, wasn't it? John tapped his leg absentmindedly, and glanced at the cabbie. For a second, when John saw his eyes in the rear view mirror, he'd thought it was that killer. The one from him and Sherlock's first case. The one that _he'd_ killed. He only had to blink though, to realize that it wasn't.

This was why Lestrade had given up on trying to get him to take over as "Consulting Detective". There was no way that John could even pick up a case in the first place, let alone take _Sherlock's_ job. He was too haunted by the past. Everywhere he looked, he saw something that was linked to Sherlock. _Sherlock. Sherlock._ _Sherlock_. That was all he could think about any more. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his face, covered in blood. The guilt, it was eating away at him. He should have stopped him, should have _convinced_ him not to jump.

Even then, as the taxi cab passed St. Bartholomew's hospital, John couldn't even look at the building, without picturing his best friend's body hurtling toward the ground. He buried his head in his hands, and didn't look back up until he knew that they had driven past.

As the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street, John stepped out carefully, as he was now starting to feel slightly ill. He always felt like that after seeing the hospital. He didn't know why he never asked the drivers to go another way. He guessed he just felt like he _needed_ to be reminded. He handed the money to the cabbie, the exact amount, as he didn't have the patience to wait for change.

As he unlocked the front door, and stepped inside, he saw Mrs Hudson, sat on the bottom step, waiting for him. She looked up, and she had the biggest smile on her face that John had seen in a while. He could see that she was trying to hide her excitement, but she wasn't doing a very good job.

"Mrs Hudson?" he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up next to the door. The elderly woman just smiled, and replied.

"You have a visitor, dear. Just go on upstairs." she said, and gestured towards the stairs. John nodded, and took the stairs slowly, one at a time. He heard Mrs Hudson scuttle off, and paused for a moment, preparing himself. He mustn't get his hopes up about this "visitor". It could be anyone. Most likely, it was Mycroft, or some producer wanting to do a documentary about Sherlock. John forced himself to steady his breathing, and clutched the banister for support.

Once had managed to calm and convince himself, he carried on up the stairs. He still took them slowly though, not wanting to seem to eager for this "visitor". John was _90%_ sure that whatever this visit was for, it wouldn't be pleasant. If it had been good news, or something of the kind, Mrs Hudson would have called and told him to hurry. Even if it had been urgent news, she would have called. Then again, if it was bad news, then why had Mrs Hudson been smiling so widely when she opened the door? It didn't make much sense to John really, until he heard something, and suddenly, it all clicked.

Someone, upstairs, in his flat, was playing the violin. Not only that, but they were playing his . . . _Sherlock's_ favourite composition. And nobody could play it like he did. John recognized the sharp, clean way he played the notes, and how he held some a little longer than he was meant to.

It was hearing this composition that caused John to run up those last few steps, and go hurtling towards his flat. He stumbled in through the door, as the music carried on. And there, sure enough, stood Sherlock, in all his glory.

He had obviously not heard John coming in, or had chosen to ignore him. He was stood looking out of the window, with his music stand by his side, and violin rested on his shoulder. He was swaying to the music slightly, from side to side. John used to love finding him in these moments, where he would get completely taken over by the music. Before he died.

He died, John thought suddenly. He was supposed to be dead! He was dead, but . . . he was there, stood right in front of him. It couldn't be possible. Maybe John was just imagining it? Or maybe it _wasn't_ Sherlock? Just someone that looked like him? Maybe Moriarty was back? Or one of his gang?

Just as John had almost convinced himself to pull out a gun and threaten the intruder, the violin playing stopped, and without turning, the player spoke. And John could tell, without a doubt, that it was him.

"Aren't you going to tell me you missed me?"

* * *

**Well guys, what did you think? Review please! I read all of your reviews, and they really do mean a lot to me!**


	3. Chapter Three: Finally

**Hey guys!**

**So, I've been thinking a lot about this chapter, and about John's reaction to Sherlock coming back. It's been bugging me for a while, because I didn't know what to do, but I think I've got it now. Hopefully, I've come up with something that will shock you guys, but you'll like it as well? . . . We'll see.**

**I have also come up with how I can make this into at least a ten chapter story. Would you guys still be interested in reading that? Let me know, review or PM me, I don't mind.**

**Megz**

**oxox**

**Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Sherlock. If I did, it wouldn't be at least another year's wait until Series 3.**

* * *

"Aren't you going to tell me you missed me?"

John couldn't believe it. After a _year _of believing that Sherlock was dead, a year he spent all alone, feeling so empty. And now . . . he was stood right in front of him. John could feel a whole mix of emotions at once. He felt angry at Sherlock, obviously, for letting John believe that he was dead, and also for making him believe it in the first place. He felt relief, because he was no longer alone, and Sherlock was back. He felt happy, incredibly happy, in fact, for having his best friend back. He felt curious, as to how he'd done it, faked his own death. How does someone do that? How could he have jumped off a building, and _survived? _Well, it _was_ Sherlock, he's brilliant. He felt hope, and fear. Had Sherlock been reading his blog? He knew that was a trivial thing to be worrying about, given the circumstances, but had he?

John felt like he could just cry in that moment, right there. And not just crying, little tears, he felt like he was about to explode in sobs. It was taking all his strength to remain standing. All of a sudden, he didn't trust his legs to keep him up. How could Sherlock just stand there, so calm? So controlled? He hadn't seen him in a _year. _People don't just let their best friend think that they're dead, and then show up a year later, with no explanation. But then, he was Sherlock, and he was John. They didn't _do _emotions or explanations, it just wasn't what they did. Sherlock kept to himself, and John accepted that. That was how they _worked. _But this was different, and, suddenly, John found his voice.

"You bastard," He whispered, and that caused Sherlock to put down the violin, and face him. And at seeing his face, John couldn't help the stream of curse words and obscenities that came spilling out. And Sherlock just stood there, and _took it. _Like he completely agreed with everything John was saying, and for a moment, Sherlock Holmes almost looked _ashamed _of himself. Just for a moment. And John just carried on, letting it all out. All the anger, and the pain from the past year, in a flurry of curses. "Do you have any idea how that fucking felt? To watch my best friend jump off a fucking roof? No, of course you don't you arrogant dick . . . " And it just continued.

John wasn't sure at what point to curses turned into sobbing. He only became aware of the fact that he was crying when he realized he was kneeling on the floor, with his head in his hands. His whole body shook with the sobs. The relief and happiness and sorrow came out in the ex-army doctor's tears. All those times he dreamed that Sherlock would come back, he never _truly _believed that it could happen. Yes, he'd told people that Sherlock would come back, but deep down he'd known, or, he'd _thought _he'd known . . . But now, seeing him in their old flat . . . it was too much for John. The shock was causing him to shake terribly, which was making the crying worse.

For a while, he thought that Sherlock was just going to stand there and watch his best friend fall to pieces. And for a moment, he did, but then his heart kicked in, and he walked over to the crumbling man, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Carefully, Sherlock bent down, balancing on the balls of his feet. He lent over John, and slowly enveloped him into an awkward hug. Sherlock had never really hugged people before today, and he was finding the experience mildly uncomfortable, but at the same time . . . strangely comforting. He'd been alone for so long now, and to have his friends back, and to hold them in his arms, it . . . it warmed even his cold heart.

He let John cry in his arms, and into his shirt. Sherlock had had no idea that his death would've effected John this much. The last time he and John had spoken, properly spoken, not the phone call, John had been so sure of himself. So . . . John. They'd been fighting the last time they'd spoken, about Mrs Hudson. Well, about Sherlock being . . . what had John called him? A . . . machine. He'd thought that Sherlock's friends didn't matter to him, that he didn't care whether they lived or died. He'd thought that Sherlock preferred to be alone. Oh how wrong he'd been.

The only reason that Sherlock had pretended to kill himself in the first place was so that his friends could live. As long as he was around them, none of them were safe. So he faked his death, and let them believe it, to protect them. Because, in all honesty, Sherlock had never wanted to be alone, not after meeting John. He'd told him that night that, "Alone is what he had, alone protects him." and John had replied, "No, friends protect you.". If only he'd known how right he was about that. Because, for the past year, Sherlock had been doing just that. Staying away, keeping his distance, so that John could live. John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. And he would tell John just that, as soon as he managed to calm him down.

Eventually, the crying stopped, and John pulled away from Sherlock. The consulting detective just got up, and offered John his hand. He took it, and they both sat in their armchairs. Just like old times . . . except it wasn't. The atmosphere was completely different, so controlled and awkward. It didn't feel like them, it felt too quiet. Sherlock knew he should say something, try to explain why he'd done it, or where he had been, why he'd come back. But all he could do was just sit, and look at John.

He looked different, not like himself. His hair wasn't as well kept, and it looked like he hadn't slept in months, which he probably hadn't. He was dressed in one of his old jumpers, but it didn't seem to fit him properly. John had definitely become thinner since Sherlock had last seen him, and all of his clothes were practically hanging off him. Sherlock vowed that as soon as they'd sorted all of this out, he would make sure John eat as much as the consulting detective could force down him. And the apartment . . . almost all of Sherlock's stuff was gone. He'd known that John would move most of his stuff into his old bedroom, but now, practically _all _of his stuff was in there. In fact, the only thing that he could see in that room that was his, if he was right . . . was the shirt that John was wearing.

It was noticing that shirt that made Sherlock finally start to talk. He realized that John had waited long enough.

"John," Sherlock whispered, and the other man's head shot up, finally looking at him properly. And Sherlock could see the deep sadness there, and he knew it was his fault. "I . . . I'm sorry. I can explain, I -"

"No, um . . . don't . . . don't explain. L - Later, okay?" John replied, "We can talk about that later, I just . . . you're here . . . "

"I read your blog John." Sherlock replied, in a voice so quiet that John was almost unsure of what he'd said. But Sherlock knew he'd heard him, he could read the shock and bewilderment on John's face. The ex-army doctor looked down at his hands, and tried not to look embarrassed.

He _knew_ Sherlock would've read his blog, he was too much of a curious man not to. He would've gotten bored, and wanted to know if there was anything going on. He would've wanted to know if John was still solving cases, and if there was any cases that he could solve in his spare time. He would've wanted to know how Mrs Hudson, and Molly were. Or would he? He must have faked his death for a reason. And he had taken this long to come back? Maybe he didn't care how they were doing? But obviously he did, because he _had _read John's blog, and now he was here, presumably, because of that.

" . . . And?" John coughed quietly into his hand, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't want Sherlock to know how nervous this conversation was making him. Though, if he was still as good at deduction as he had always been, he would know already. That was a good point though, if Sherlock was as good at deduction as he'd thought, then why had he never realized John's feelings for him? Surely he must have had _some _idea? Then again, love and relationships had never really been this _particular_ detective's strong point. John waited for Sherlock to say something . . . _anything_, in fact. It seemed, for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was lost for words.

"Well . . . um, John," Sherlock crossed his legs, looking just as uncomfortable as John felt. "I . . . As you know, I'm not very good with relationships . . . Of course, the idea of you . . . having feelings for me does not . . . particularly _bother_ me, but I am unsure as to whether I share those . . . feelings. It does also not bother me that you are a male, because we have discussed that it does not matter to me. But . . . I don't know, what it feels like, to . . . love someone. I mean . . . yes, there was something between me and Miss Adler, and I do have a _reasonable_ amount of affection for my . . . friends, but . . . You, John . . . I . . . That is, if you do _truly_ love me. I mean, it would not be unnatural for you to develop some form of attachment to me, given the way you were before we met. You feel as if I saved you, in a way, so you may _feel_ -"

"Wait, _what_?" John interrupted. He couldn't really be suggesting that John's feelings were all in his head, could he? Or that there was some weird, physiological explanation for it?

"John, I think you know what I'm trying to say. When something's gone, or when someone dies, you . . . Well, I never noticed anything before, and you never said anything, I mean, there were no signs . . . And then, I die, and you suddenly develop feelings for me? It seems a little absurd, don't you think?"

John was lost for words. Sherlock Holmes, was trying to tell _him_, that his feelings weren't even real. That it was some kind of weird grief. He didn't even _know_ where to begin with explaining his feelings, so he let Sherlock continue.

"You're losing something, and suddenly you desperately desire it, common human mistake." Sherlock stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You . . . _you can't be serious!_" John yelled, and stood up, angry that Sherlock could suggest such a thing. Did he not understand what John had been going through? "Do you have . . . any idea what it's been like? All on my own here? Surrounded by things that remind me of you? Constantly dreaming of that day, of when you fell? Do you know how much it hurt? Were you the one who had to live every day feeling empty inside? Feeling like your life wasn't even worth living any more?!" John was aware that his voice was getting louder and louder, but he carried on, "No. So I'm sorry if my feelings are _inconveniencing_ you, what with your lack of experience in that area. But I'm telling you now, what I feel is real, and I don't care whatever your _'Science of Deduction_' tells you, _I love you!_"

Sherlock sat for a moment, taking in all of what John had just said. It was _possible_ that John's feelings could be real, but if they were, Sherlock had no idea how to deal with them. He had solved countless cases that came down to relationships, and he could spot a couple simply by eye contact. But it seemed that when it came to John, Sherlock just drew up blanks. There was something about John Watson that both fascinated and scared him. When they'd first met, he'd been able to tell everything about John just from one glance, he was an open book. But ever since then, John had become better at hiding himself. It was possible he didn't even know he was doing it, but Sherlock had found it harder and harder to read him. That was possibly why he'd never noticed John's 'feelings' before.

But he knew about them now, and that was no longer the problem. The problem was how Sherlock felt about John. He looked at the other man, stood in front of him with a very angry look on his face. So far, just looking at him did not stir anything. No churning of the stomach, or missed heartbeats. No rush of adrenalin, so no dilated pupils either. But, when he thought of John, and all the things they'd done together, there was . . . something. Something Sherlock couldn't identify, but it was stronger than friendship, much stronger. But was it love, though? Sherlock shook his head in frustration, and ran his fingers through his hair roughly, giving up for now. There were more pressing matters at hand, like the fact that he'd been dead for a year.

"John, I . . . I had no idea my death would effect you so much, but . . . I promise, whenever you want me to explain, I have a _very _good reason. And until then, just . . . trust me. I would never have left if I hadn't had a good reason, and you know it. I'm sorry I put you through that, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to. But I came back, that has to count for something, surely?" Sherlock stood up, putting on his coat and scarf. He would start making up for it right now. And he would start by taking John to Angelo's, their first "date" as John would probably call it. Oh how happy Angelo would be to see them. "And besides, where would the world's only consulting detective be without his blogger?"

* * *

**Well? Reviews please! I know, I know, but Sherlock will come around eventually, I promise, I just didn't want the story to end so fast!**

**So please review!**


	4. Chapter Four: Funeral

**Hey guys!**

**So, this chapter took a lot of thought. But I'm off school for a week now, so hopefully that means I'll be able to update faster, and hopefully a lot more chapters will be on their way!**

**Enjoy!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

* * *

"Table for two please, Angelo," Sherlock mutter nonchalantly as they entered the restaurant. As if he's forgotten he'd been dead to the world for a _year_. John had always admired him for that, although at times it irritated him, how he could just say the boldest and most outrageous things as if they were so plain and simple. Angelo stared, open-mouthed for a moment, before shaking his head and laughing.

"Sherlock Holmes, I would've known it'd take more than that to get rid of you!" Angelo continued to laugh to himself, as he gestured towards the table by the window, where they'd sat on their first "date". Sherlock shrugged his coat off, and indicated to John the seat facing away from the window. They both slid into their seats, and made themselves comfortable. "Candle?" Angelo asked, looking at John, who was now looking at Sherlock for an answer. John was about to say no, when Sherlock replied for him.

"Yes, please, if you wouldn't mind," he muttered, and then coughed lightly, before turning back to face John, who was now staring at him blankly. Surely, he didn't know what he was suggesting with the candle? He couldn't. Sherlock didn't know what these things meant to people, candles, dinner "dates", hand holding. But John could accept that. Because he was Sherlock, and he was back. After one year of waiting, John didn't care. He could be the most annoying dick ever, and John wouldn't care, because he was back. And he was no longer alone. Angelo set the candle down, and two menus, and left the two men to it. "John, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you how deeply sorry I am, I never -"

"No. No, it's . . . you don't have to apolo -" John interrupted, only to be interrupted himself.

"No, I do, I . . . I never thought I could have . . . friends, until I met you. I was always alone, and alone was better. Alone was what kept me safe. But then, I met you, an ex-army doctor, with a psychosomatic limp and a therapist. And at first, you were just like everyone else, just another puzzle for me to solve. Just a flatmate to help pay the rent. But then you saved me. No one has ever had to save me before John, from anything. And that was new to me -"

"Sherlock . . . "

"No, I . . . I need to say this. So you became my friend, my best friend in fact. And I started to look at people in a new light. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. They became my friends too. And I started to become a little more human. When I saw you in that pool, with those bombs strapped to you, John, I thought it was the end. I honestly thought in that moment that I was going to lose you, all because of my own stupidity. But somehow, I managed to save you, like you did for me.

And then of course, there was Miss Adler. I'm not going to lie, Miss Adler did . . . provoke some interest from me. She was new, and different, like no one I had ever encountered. But she was dangerous. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is . . . don't think I wasn't thinking of you when I was on that rooftop John. Don't think for a second that I never considered how my death would affect you. But trust me, when I say that I had no other choice. Or, no other acceptable choice. And I would've come back sooner, in a heartbeat, if I could have, but I had other things to take care of. I didn't like being alone, John, and that surprised me. I . . . I missed you, you were my best friend. And believe me when I say, that from the bottom of my heart, I am truly sorry."

"Sherlock, I," John muttered, not knowing what to say. What could he say, to such a heartfelt, and sincere apology? Especially one that had just come from Sherlock Holmes? "I forgive you. Now, um . . . that's enough with the sappy apologies and hugs, don't you think?" John joked, finally cracking a smile, and Sherlock beamed back at him, before coughing into his hand awkwardly.

"Yes, um . . . quite right, yes." He looked down at the menu, and scanned it quickly. "So, tell me, Doctor Watson, what have I missed?"

And for the next hour and a half that passed, the two men talked about what they had missed. They laughed and joked, but went no further. They discussed the news, and how people had dealt with Sherlock's death. They talked about Molly, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. But what Sherlock had been doing for the past year, or how he'd faked his death, was never mentioned. Of course, Sherlock wanted to share it with his best friend, but only when John was ready.

* * *

It was about seven o'clock when they left the restaurant. It was a cold, winter's night, and Sherlock had his coat collar turned up. The two men could see each other's breath as they walked along the street, hands in pockets. Since Sherlock hadn't called for a cab to take them home, John had no idea where they were going, but went along with it anyway. Today had probably been the best day of his life, he didn't want to ruin it now. And besides, the mystery was interesting him. He followed Sherlock down the street, without saying a word. He could tell that Sherlock had his mind set on something, so he just followed him quietly.

The stars were out in the sky, and John was instantly reminded of a night a few years ago, when he and Sherlock had walked beneath the stars. But it was so different this time. Everything was quiet, and the atmosphere was completely different. John had no idea what to say, so he just decided to enjoy the moment. After all, he'd been waiting a year for this. To see Sherlock again, alive. To talk to him again. To just watch him. The way that he walked, the way that he solved a case, the way that he breathed. He had changed a little, obviously, but that didn't bother John. He looked a little older, of course, but what had he expected?

As they came out of an alleyway, and into a crowded street, John had to quicken his pace a little to keep up. After all, Sherlock was still much taller than him, and tended to walk in big strides. John still had no idea where they were, or where they were going, but again, he continued to follow the taller man. He knew they were not too far away from Baker Street though, as they hadn't gone too far from Angelo's, and 221B was not that far from there. John didn't know why he was becoming so nervous, he'd never been like this around Sherlock before, and yet he found himself wondering just how long it would take to get back to the flat.

Suddenly, Sherlock began to speak, and John had to pause his worried thoughts, to listen to what the detective was saying.

"So I'm sure, by now, you must be wondering where I'm taking you." He said, still not facing John directly, but still talking to him as they walked.

"Not - um . . . yes," John mumbled, looking down at the floor as they walked.

"Well . . . nowhere, really." Sherlock answered, and he sounded slightly nervous himself. Then again, it had been at least a year now since they'd last seen each other, there was bound to still be awkwardness. "I just thought we could take the opportunity for a walk. And . . . there was something I wanted to ask you about . . . "

John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had to ask him, that he couldn't have done it at Angelo's. Then again, a few hours was nowhere near enough time for the catching up that they had to do. Not that he had much to tell Sherlock, pretty much everything he'd done was in his blog anyway, and it wasn't much. But John was sure that whatever Sherlock had been doing for the past year, it would be nothing short of amazing.

"Um . . . go on. What is it?"

"My funeral." He mumbled, and it seemed he felt ashamed of wanting to ask. But it was natural, really, if John thought about it. Everybody wonders what will happen after they die. Who will come to their funeral, who will be sad, who will miss them . . . he would be lying if he said he'd never thought about it either. But . . . Sherlock's funeral. It had been . . . well, John doubted he was going to like it. "Tell me about it John, I want to know."

John sighed, "Well . . . quite a lot of people showed up, as you can imagine. There were cameramen, the whole of Scotland Yard, Molly, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, past clients, Sarah, and Henry Knight. That journalist . . . Kitty Riley, she tried to come too, but Lestrade made her leave, he said it was disrespectful. He knew she was only there for work, he couldn't get the cameras to leave, though."

"Did Donovan and Anderson attend?"

"Well . . . yes. They . . . they came, yeah. But they weren't . . . they weren't exactly there to mourn, um . . . " John mumbled, not wanting to say it.

"They still believe that I'm a fake don't they?" Sherlock interrupted him, and John was glad for not having to say it himself. Truth be told, he didn't like people thinking of Sherlock that way, no matter who they were. It annoyed him, because, to him, Sherlock was the most amazing man, and human being, he had ever met. To think that there were people out there who thought any less of him . . . it got on his nerves, to say the least.

"Yes, yes they do." John replied, taking the importunity to look at the younger man. He saw a look flash across Sherlock's face, that looked like something close to disappointment. But as soon as John had spotted it, it was gone. "But, Sherlock, they were the only ones there who believed as such, I swear. And besides, who cares what people like them think anyway? I know you, and you're better than them. So much better." John tried to smile, for the first time in a long time, and Sherlock smiled back.

"So, tell me more, Doctor. Any tears shed? Any hymns? What else?"

"Well, um . . . . me, Lestrade and Mycroft were asked to do speeches, Mrs Hudson cried quite a lot, and . . . . I may have shed a few tears myself."

"Oh, come on John," Sherlock nudged him, smiling again. "You know I need more detail than that!"

* * *

_It was a cold day in September, and the church was filled with people. John Watson straightened his tie, and took his seat in the front row, next to Lestrade. He tried to keep his face blank and emotionless, for the cameras, but he felt his lip quiver when he saw the picture of Sherlock next to the coffin. He bit his lip, and flexed his fingers uncomfortably. He took a quick glance around, as saw a few familiar faces. Lots of past clients were there, and even some of Sherlock's family._

_Mycroft Holmes, in particular. He sat on the very back row, looking like he was ready to leave at any moment. He was dressed in all black, and had his umbrella rested at his side. There was no sign of his "assistant/secretary", or whatever she was. Which meant that Mycroft probably didn't want people to know he was there. Plus, that would also explain why he was sat on the back row. He didn't want people to see him. He looked . . . just the same as ever, really. But then, John had never really had Mycroft down as one for emotions._

_Sat in the row in front of Mycroft, was about twenty Scotland Yard officers, including Anderson, and Sally Donovan. John doubted the two of them even wanted to be here at all, but he knew that the whole of Scotland Yard had been ordered to come by Lestrade. Well, at least they had been respectful enough to wear black, but neither of them looked particularly mournful. And why should they be? They'd both hated Sherlock, almost as much as he'd hated them. Still, they could at least be curious enough to at least **look **like they wanted to be there._

_John averted his gaze, as they were about to catch him staring. As he looked away, he saw Mrs Hudson making her way to the front of the church. She was also dressed in all black, and wearing no makeup, which was unusual for her. She held a crumpled tissue in her shaking hands, which suggested she had already been crying on the way there. It had been six weeks since John had last seen her. He'd been sleeping at Sarah's house ever since . . . ever since he died. He gestured to her, and waved her over to sit with him._

_"He would've hated this, you know." Mrs Hudson commented, as she sat down next to John. He looked around the room, and nodded his head. "All this attention, the cameras. He never did like to be in the public eye. All that stuff with the papers as well . . . How could they say those things, John? How could they even think, for one second that he could . . ."_

_John noticed that she was starting to cry, and took her into his arms. He let her cry into his shirt, and felt her shaking. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were probably the only two people as badly effected by Sherlock's death as he was. Possibly Mycroft as well. It felt good as well, to know that there was at least one other person out there who didn't believe that Sherlock was, or had been a fraud._

_"He was a good man, John."_

_"Yes, yes he was." He replied, and Mrs Hudson slowly slid out of his embrace, and patted his hand gently. As the vicar entered the church, everyone else took their seats, the cameras started rolling, and everything was quiet. John knew his speech was coming up soon, after a short introduction. He stepped up to the small podium next to the coffin, and tried to even his breathing. He took out a crumpled piece of paper, and laid it out in front of him. It had taken him at least ten attempts to write his speech, but he was sure he'd got it right in the end._

_"Sherlock Holmes." John whispered, his voice a little hoarse, but then he coughed into his hand, and prepared himself. "How . . .How do I even begin to describe Sherlock Holmes?" He laughed to himself, and he heard everyone else give a little chuckle as well. It was true that anyone who knew Sherlock already knew how brilliant he was, but John wanted everyone else to know. He wanted everyone out there who was watching this, whoever believed the papers for even a second, to know how brilliant Sherlock was -had been. "He was . . . the most, amazing man that I have ever met. And certainly the strangest. I think many of you will agree with me when I say that. For this was a man, who kept body parts in his fridge! 'Experiments', of course. He could tell what you'd been doing last Saturday just from the way you tied your shoelaces. He was . . . extraordinary. And I know that many people out there despise him because of that._

_"Yes, he may have been different. Eccentric, even. But that did **not **make him a murderer. And I know that even some of you sat here today," John made a point to look at Anderson and Sally, who were now looking at their feet, embarrassed. "Still believe that he was. I hope that you feel ashamed of yourselves. To judge another human being so harshly, and especially one as . . . amazing as he was . . . you should be ashamed. Sherlock was the . . . the best man. He was so reckless, and carefree, but logical at the same time. He tried not to let himself feel. He told me it was a dangerous disadvantage, something that he couldn't allow himself to do. But I know he did, and though he would never admit it, I knew most of his actions were because of his emotions._

_"He told me once, that he wasn't a hero, and that I shouldn't try to make him into one. But he was. He saved me. I was lost for so long, so alone. Every day of my life was just spent in fear and grief. But then he showed me how to live again. He walked right into my life, and made it better. And he saved me in more than one way, as well. He saved me from death, but he also saved me from myself. I don't know what I would have done with my life, if it hadn't been for him. And though we only spent two years together, they were, and always will be, the best years of my life._

_"Because, he was my best friend. And despite what some of you may think, I knew him. And no one will ever convince me that he told me a lie. He was honest, and true, and now he's gone. And now . . . every day is like a hole. I know that none of you can understand that, because none of you knew him like I did. He was truly brilliant, and I just wish that more people had gotten to see that. He was my best friend, and I will never forget him, for as long as I live."_

* * *

"John." Sherlock whispered. He never believed thought that his death would affect John that much. When he came back, he'd had no idea of the broken man he was coming back to.

"Don't. Just . . . don't"

* * *

**So? What did you think? REVIEW please!**

**Megz**

**oxox**


	5. Chapter Five: Yes

**Hi guys!**

**Sorry that it's been so long! I was having a bit of writer's block on this story, so I decided to write out the whole plot, so that it doesn't happen again. It just means that all I have to do is figure out how to put it in the right words.**

**Anyway, I won't keep you any longer . . .**

**Enjoy!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

**(Just realized I was listening to this song at the same time as writing this, that seemed completely accurate for this story: Something New by the Airborne Toxic Event)**

* * *

It had been two days now, and John and Sherlock's relationship was slowly reverting back to what it once was. The body parts in the fridge, the constantly running out of milk, and the constant texting had started again, even if John was only in the other room. He had to admit, in some ways, John was glad. He'd thought his admitting his feelings would change their relationship somewhat, make it more strained. But it had mostly stayed the same, with only a few slip ups really. Like, if they saw anything to do with Sherlock himself, about his death, there would be an awkward silence, and they would ignore it. John could tell that Sherlock wanted to tell him how he'd done it. A magician never reveals his best trick, but John could just tell that Sherlock was dying to tell him.

In another way though, John was sad that their relationship hadn't changed. They didn't talk about John's feelings, or whether Sherlock could _ever _reciprocate. It just didn't seem to come up in conversation. He wished that they could at least acknowledge it, just sit down and talk about it for a few minutes. But John knew that Sherlock wasn't ready, and he could accept that, for now. Sherlock had not really had any experience with too many emotions, well, ever. He didn't know what love felt like, despite seeming to be a complete expert on the human mind and how it thinks and works. It amazed John how much Sherlock seemed to know, but in the end, how little he _actually _knew.

John shook his mind of those thoughts, as his flatmate entered the living room, and sat on the armchair opposite him. Well, he squatted really. He had his palms together in front of his face, and John could tell he was thinking. It was ten in the morning, and Sherlock also still had his pyjamas on. It was not a good sign. This wasn't just regular Sherlock-thinking. This was in depth Sherlock-thinking. This was not-talking-for-days-on-end type thinking. John just hoped it wouldn't last long. Him and Sherlock had just about finished patching up their friendship, he didn't need him going all comatose right now.

He watched, as Sherlock thought to himself. It sometimes worried John when he went into a "thought process". He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't even talk. John didn't like to admit it, but had worried about Sherlock quite a lot before he "died". And now that he was back, it was just the same as before. If he went out of the apartment, for any reason, John worried that something would happen to him. If he didn't go out of the apartment, John worried that something was wrong. It had caused John so much stress in those two years, and now it was just starting all over again.

Luckily for John, today was not one of _those _days. "John," Sherlock began, dropping to a sitting position. He still had his palms together in front of his face, but he seemed to be a lot more focused now. And then, he muttered the six words that, for a short second, stopped John's heart. "I think we need to talk." He turned to look at John properly now, folding his hands in his lap.

"Um . . . what about?" John asked nervously, though he was pretty sure what it was about. He was a tiny bit glad though that Sherlock was now bringing it up. He had always thought it was better to solve a problem than to just try and ignore it. And obviously, Sherlock being a consulting detective, he thought so too. John sat up straighter in his chair, and tried to act a bit more serious. He thought a business-like conversation would be easier for Sherlock than a heart-to-heart.

"John. Judging by your posture and the break in your voice, you obviously know what about. Your pupils are already dilated, and your breathing has notably sped up. Can't believe I never noticed it before really, of course, there were other things to . . . Still, you would think . . . No! Not important right now, hm . . . " Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to dismiss his obviously frantic thoughts. John often wondered what it was like in Sherlock's head, though he was pretty sure he had a good idea. Just numerous thoughts all fighting each other for attention, and only a small fraction of them voiced. "Anyway, yes. We need to talk about your feelings, and where this . . . relationship is going . . . "

John could tell even Sherlock himself was getting nervous now. He could tell by the fact that he wasn't really sure what words to use. Then again, as he had told him countless times before, relationships were not his area. Though he seemed to want Mycroft to think differently. It was probably just sibling rivalry though, just as any normal family would have. John almost laughed at his own thoughts, for comparing the Holmes' to a "normal family". But then he remembered the current awkward and serious conversation that he was currently in.

"And where is that? . . . Where _is_ this relationship going?" he asked, in a desperate sounding voice, that he didn't seem to be able to control. He had wanted to have this exact conversation with Sherlock for the last year. All those days spent alone, he had always wondered what would happen . . . if he told Sherlock about his feelings. What he would say, and if he would ever be able to . . . reciprocate.

"John, I . . . " Sherlock looked lost for a moment. And John almost felt guilty for dumping all of this on the other man. He had just come back, and now he had all this complicated relationship stuff to work through.

But in a way, it was both of their faults, really. John, for not realizing his feelings sooner. All the signs had been there really. He constantly followed Sherlock around, always worried about him. He always talked about him, and when he died . . . it had been like there was a massive hole in his life. But also, it was partly Sherlock's fault. He was supposed to be one of the best consulting detectives in the world. Well, he was the only one . . . but that wasn't the point! He could identify what you'd had for lunch by the way you tied your shoelaces, for god's sakes! You'd think he'd be able to tell if his best friend, who he saw _every day _was in love with him!

"I need to start off by saying, John . . . I'm still not sure I'm entirely ready to explain my feelings yet. And I definitely don't want to start any kind of relationship with you until I'm sure. You must understand, I've never been . . . in love with someone before. This is hard, and . . . believe it or not, I don't want to hurt you. I know, in light of . . . certain events, you might not believe that, but I don't. And I'm sure, when you're ready to hear it, and I explain it to you, you will understand. But, I know that you're not ready to hear it yet, as it has been only two days since my return. I know that you need a lot more time to readjust, as do I. But, you must know . . . from now, until the end of my days, I will spend every day trying to make up for what I did."

"Sherlock . . . " John began, trying to look as sincere as he could. "I completely agree with everything you've said, but I need to ask you a very important question . . . Sherlock, do you think you could ever . . . return my feelings?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked completely blank again. They both knew that there entire friendship was riding on his answer. If he said no, then John would have to move out almost immediately. He didn't think he could stand being around Sherlock every day, knowing that he knew of his feelings, but could never reciprocate. It would be too much. If he said maybe, then they would try to work through it. They could figure it all out together, and even if Sherlock said no in the end, John would leave happy, knowing that they'd at least tried. And if he said yes . . . well, that was just too great for John to possibly imagine.

And all of a sudden, a huge grin spread across Sherlock's face. "Yes, John . . . I do believe I could."

* * *

**Yes, I know it was short, and I apologize, but I have a lot more coming, I promise. And no Moriarty, either, so some of you will be happy to hear that! REVIEW PLEASE!**


	6. Chapter Six: the Story

**Hey guys!**

**So, I just wanted to mention that, I have a one-shot up for John and Sherlock, and you can find it on my page, if any of you are interested! I have a few more one-shots in mind for them, so follow me if you're interested in them, too!**

**I'm really sorry about the slow update, I've been dealing with a lot lately, and the only reason I got to update this was because I stayed off school today.**

**Enjoy!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

* * *

Sherlock lay in his bed, unable to sleep. Ever since he had come back, he could tell that John was still not coping very well. Although he tried to hide it, Sherlock could see it in his eyes, and it worried him. He'd thought that he could just come back, and everything would be just as it had been before. He'd never once thought about the broken man he had left behind. Not because he hadn't cared about John, of course not, but because . . . Sherlock had never really mattered to anyone before. Never once had Sherlock thought that anybody would miss _him. _People generally just found him irritating. But somehow, John was different. He cared about Sherlock. He _loved _him.

And that was something that Sherlock just couldn't understand. It wasn't his feelings for John that he needed to figure out, that wouldn't take him long at all, it was why John loved _him. _Why, out of all the people that John could've had, did he want _Sherlock? _His annoying, eccentric, sociopathic flat-mate? It didn't make sense to him. It was true that Sherlock had never been in love before, so he didn't know what it felt like, though he understood the science of it. _The chemistry is incredibly simple,_ Sherlock thought to himself, _it's a sum of three primary factors: lust, attraction, and attachment. When people fall in love, the brain releases chemicals such as pheromones, dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin. This can cause increased heart rate, loss of appetite and sleep, and an intense feeling of excitement. This usually lasts from one and a half to three years. Psychologically, love has another three components: intimacy, commitment and passion. The Greeks have different words for love; Agape, pure and ideal type of love, Eros, a passionate love with sensual desire and longing, Philia, a dispassionate and virtuous love, such as friends and family, Storge, a natural affection, such as parents with their children, and Xenia, hospitality. _

Sherlock knew so much about love, it was unnatural. But, he had to know it, as it was the main motivator behind most murders and cases. When Sherlock thought it over in his head, he probably had experienced love before, but never of the romantic kind. He _did _love Mrs Hudson, and Molly, and even, in some ways, Lestrade. They were the only people, besides John, who had believed in him, even after his "death". And Molly had helped him so much. She had been the one to help him fake his own death in the first place. And thinking about it, he did love John, of _course _he did. He just couldn't figure out what category of love it fell into. It definitely wasn't just a friendship love, it was so much more than that. John was the only person in the world who _understood _Sherlock, and _knew _him, inside out. And, by some miracle, still loved him for it. _  
_

As Sherlock was just about to go into full thinking mode, he heard a shout and a thud come from John's room next door. Quickly, he shot up out of bed, and ran out of the door. He stood, pausing outside John's door for a second, listening for any noise inside, but it was silent. He yanked open the door, and stepped inside quietly, keeping the lights off. But he didn't see any danger, just John, lying in bed, sound asleep._ He's just having a bad dream, _Sherlock thought to himself, walking back towards the door, when he heard John cry out again;

"_Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time _we _met, you knew all about my sister, right?" _

It only took those two sentences to make Sherlock stop in his tracks. He knew straight away what John was dreaming about, and it made him feel sick. He turned back around, looking at John, who had tears streaming down his face. He was gasping roughly in his sleep, and Sherlock knew that he should try to wake him up, but he couldn't move. He was frozen to the spot, watching his best friend relive the worst day of his life.

"_You could . . ." _

And suddenly, without realizing he was doing it, Sherlock started to whisper the words along with him.

_"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick." _When he repeated the words, Sherlock could tell that he'd never _really _wanted John to believe him. All along, he'd wanted John to have hope that he'd come back one day, and that he wasn't a fake. Sure, it would've been a lot easier for John to believe him, hate him, and move on with his life, but it would've broken Sherlock's heart.

_"No. All right, stop it now."_

_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." _Sherlock remembered his panic, as John had tried to move, to get closer, somehow. He remembered the desperation in both of their voices. Even though Sherlock hadn't _wanted _John to believe it, he'd still known it was better for both of them if he went through with it.

_"All right."_

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" _That was the moment when Sherlock was the most desperate, and he remembered extending his hand to John, as if, across all that distance, he could reach him somehow. That's all he'd wanted, in those last few moments together, was just to reach out, and just to _touch _John. To tell him somehow, that it was all going to be okay. That was the moment when Sherlock had even let himself cry a little bit, and he knew that John could hear it in his voice.

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"  
_

_"Leave a note when?"  
_

_"Goodbye, John_." In all his life, that had been the hardest thing that Sherlock had ever had to say. Saying goodbye to John hurt him more than he would ever admit. As Sherlock knew the dream was coming to an end, he walked back towards the door, not wanting to be there when John woke up.

_"No. Don't. No. _**SHERLOCK!**" John screamed, and leapt, bolt upright, in his bed. His breathing coming fast and hard, and he looked at Sherlock in confusion, and relief. Sherlock knew he couldn't leave then, it would look too suspicious, so he turned back to face John, who was trying to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes. "Um . . . how long have you been there?"

"Not long," Sherlock replied, not wanting John to know that he had been stood there the whole time. "I just heard you shout, and thought I'd come to see if you were alright. Are you . . . alright?"

"Fine." John sighed, smiling up at Sherlock, but there was obvious pain in his eyes.

* * *

A few hours later, John and Sherlock were both sat in the living room. They had been unable to get back to sleep after their conversation that morning, and had both decided to just get up instead. It was only eight o'clock in the morning, but both of the men were up, fully dressed, and had never felt more awake. John had never told Sherlock about the nightmares. Every night, ever since Sherlock had jumped, that memory played it's self over and over in John's mind. But Sherlock didn't need to know. He didn't need to know that, ever since the day that he'd "died", John had died a little inside too. He couldn't leave the house by himself, and it had taken a _lot _of convincing to get him to go out at all. But it wasn't important, because now Sherlock was _back. _The dreams would stop soon, and everything would be okay. So there was nothing to talk about.

John sat in his armchair, legs crossed, and his head resting on his palm. Sherlock was sat facing him in the armchair opposite. He had his "we-need-to-talk" face on, and John was oddly curious. It wasn't often that him and Sherlock would have open and long talks. And when they did, it was usually something _very _important. Sherlock didn't like to talk about feelings. To him, they were confusing, and they were a weakness. Emotions made you vulnerable they made you open to hurt. John had to agree with him there.

"John . . . ." Sherlock began, and John glanced up at him, with hope in his eyes. He just hoped that, whatever the conversation that Sherlock wanted to have was about, it would solve _something _between them. "I'm ready."

John looked at Sherlock, confused. Ready for what? Ready to discuss his feelings? His death? Where their relationship was going? There were so many things that he could mean . . . and John was hoping for all of them. He just wanted to get it all out in the open.

"I'm ready to tell you what happened." Sherlock whispered, so quietly that John almost missed it. The elder man's heart skipped a beat. After all this time, John was finally going to hear it. The story of how Sherlock had faked his death, and why. Why he'd had to leave John all alone for so long. John tried not to zone out on him. This was what he'd been waiting for for so long, and there was no way that he was going to miss it now. "I . . . I had to John, understand that first of all. There was no way that I would have left you if there had been a choice. Moriarty forced me to. He said that . . . John, if I didn't jump . . . he was going to have his assassins kill people . . . Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, and . . . and you."

John was shocked. That was one theory that he had never even thought of. Sherlock had faked his death, and disappeared, to save _him. _It didn't make any sense. Sherlock Holmes had never cared about anybody, _ever. _All that had ever mattered to him, was his work. His work, and nothing else. _No one _else. His work was everything to him, and without it, John doubted that he would even know what to do with himself. And yet, he'd given it all up. He'd stopped his whole life, and went into hiding, to save _John. _Simple, boring, ordinary John. It touched him more than he would ever admit.

"So . . . how did you do it?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat. Sherlock ignored the change of subject. Feelings. They still weren't quite ready to talk about them yet.

"I knew that I was going to die that night, John. You remember Moriarty's promise to 'burn' me? I knew that he wasn't going to give up until I was dead. So I came up with a plan. I asked Molly to help me, and not to tell _anyone. _The less people that knew the truth, the better. I couldn't risk you. So, Molly helped me. When I . . . when I fell, John . . . when you watched me fall . . . there was a truck, waiting there to catch me. Molly was waiting in the truck. I lay down on the ground, and she brought some blood from the morgue. And . . . after that, I just . . . disappeared. Believe me John, it wasn't easy. Being apart from you . . . I . . . My whole life, I never _needed _anyone. Emotionally, of course. I was fine on my own, alone was better. Alone protected me. But then . . . being without you, it hurt me, John. How does that even make any sense? I had to see you, I had to know that you were safe. I read your blog every day, and followed you around a lot too. I wanted to be _sure. _You have no idea how . . . the last year has been hard for me too, John. I never thought . . . if I died, I never thought I'd be leaving anyone behind."

John thought he'd been shocked before. Now he was pretty much on the verge of passing out. Sherlock had missed him too. Nothing else mattered anymore. It didn't matter that he'd lied about his death. It didn't matter that he'd been gone so long. It didn't even matter if he didn't love him. Sherlock had missed him too, and that was more than enough for John at the moment.

* * *

**So? A little rushed towards the end, but I wanted to get this chapter out of the way, as I'm really looking forward to the next one!**

**REVIEW!**


	7. Chapter Seven: Proud

**Hey guys!**

**So, I've been waiting _ages _to write this chapter, and it is probably one of the ones that I wanted to write most. Sadly, this is _not _the chapter where John and Sherlock get together, but we're not far off now! This is chapter seven, and I only have three more chapters planned, so we're close to the end. I don't think this story went as well as I'd hoped though. It didn't quite come out the way that I'd wanted it to.**

**Anyway, enjoy, I know it's been a while!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

* * *

"Come on Sherlock, you can do this," John whispered, as they stepped out of the taxi. It had been the first time that they had been outside together since Sherlock had returned. The first time that Sherlock would well and truly be vulnerable, but they felt that it was time. Even so, for the first time that John had witnessed, Sherlock Holmes was _afraid. _For today was the day that they had decided to reveal to the world that Sherlock was alive. Starting with only his closest of friends. Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, followed by Anderson and Sally. Molly already knew of course, so there was no need to see her that day.

John had sent a text to all of them, and they were meeting at a small cafe near the flat. He was going to go in first, and then Sherlock would follow. Mrs Hudson already knew of course, but John had thought it was best that she was there. Sherlock had never explained his death to her, so it only seemed fair to John that she was there with them. John didn't know how he'd managed to keep it to himself for so long. He had _somehow_ managed, with _much _effort. And even he was anticipating everyone's reactions when they found out that Sherlock was still alive. Sally and Anderson would be shocked, but then pretend not to care. Mrs Hudson would cry, which was to be expected, even though she already knew. She hadn't stopped crying since Sherlock had come back, and she hadn't been much better before. And Lestrade would just be glad to have him back.

It hurt John to think that nobody had really been _that _affected by Sherlock's death. No one as much as him anyway. Whilst they'd lost, a work colleague, a friend or even a tenant, John had lost his entire _world. _It was true that when he died, most people had believed that he was a fraud, but they had to at least have _missed _him.

As they walked around the corner, John patted Sherlock on the shoulder, and they turned to face each other in the street. They had agreed that John would make sure they were all there, and sat down. He would tell them that he had some news, some very _important _news, and once he felt that they were ready, he would text Sherlock, and he would come in. Sherlock nodded, and John set off towards the cafe. He stepped through the doorway, hearing the bell ring against the door frame.

He shook off his coat, and threw it onto a coat-hook next to the door, and searched the cafe for the small meeting that he had gathered. He saw them all seated at a table in the far corner, and made his way towards them. He noticed that Sally and Anderson were sat as far away from each other as they could get, Anderson at one end, and Sally at the other. Lestrade was on the corner next to Anderson, and Mrs Hudson next to Sally. They all looked up from their conversations to meet John's eyes, and smiled at him widely. It was probably the first time they'd all seen him out of the flat of his own free will since Sherlock's death. It was easier for John to think about it now that he knew Sherlock was alive.

He took his seat across from Lestrade, and folded his hands in front of him.

"So, um . . . there is a reason that I've brought you all here, and . . . it's very important." John muttered, as they all leaned in to hear better. He didn't know quite how to phrase it, so they had agreed that Sherlock would explain it himself. "I just want . . . I want you to keep an open mind when you . . . well, when you _see, _I guess. Just . . . try not to be angry."

"What on Earth are you talking about, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, reaching across the table to touch his hand gently. John sighed, took out his phone, and sent the text to Sherlock. It amazed him that Mrs Hudson really didn't know what he was talking about.

_Now. - JW_

"You'll see." John replied, refusing to say any more. He could tell that they were all confused and anxious, but he wanted them to see for themselves. If he was being honest, he was also trying to hide a small smile. They had no idea what was coming. And he didn't even turn as he heard the bell ring over the doorway again, and chose to watch their expressions.

Mrs Hudson looked as though she was about to cry, which John had expected. Her bottom lip began to tremble, and her wrinkled hand shot up to cover her mouth in shock. Her breathing seemed to have quickened, and her eyes were watering. She had already known of course, but all week, every time she saw Sherlock, she burst into tears all over again.

Anderson's mouth had fallen into a completely circular 'O' shape, and his eyes had become so wide, John was afraid they might fall out of his head. It was almost comical, and John would've laughed, if it wasn't for the seriousness of the situation.

Lestrade looked like he was about to cry to, which was unusual to John. He had never seen Lestrade cry. He'd never even really seen him upset.

Sally though . . . Sally just looked . . . John didn't think there was even a word for it. He had never seen anyone look so shocked, devastated and relieved all at the same time. Her mouth was also trembling, and her eyes filling with tears, but her lips were also slightly upturned, in a sad, watery smile.

Of all the reactions that John had expected, he never would have thought he'd see that from Sally. It didn't make much sense. The whole time Sherlock had been "alive", Sally had hated him. She'd probably never said a single nice thing to or about him in her life. So now . . . obviously John didn't think for a second that Sally _wanted _Sherlock dead, but all the same . . .

Sherlock sat down in the chair next to John, and looked at them all with serious eyes. John was surprised in the way that Sherlock was handling their emotions. It was quite good for him. He reached over the table to take Mrs Hudson's hand gently, and John felt almost proud. He knew how much it took for Sherlock to be caring, and it showed John just how much he'd changed in the past year. He comforted Mrs Hudson for a while, before asked Lestrade if they could switch seats when she couldn't stop crying. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her comfortingly, and tried to calm her down.

It was only then that John heard Sally mutter something quietly;

_"I'm sorry."_

* * *

Later on, Sherlock and John walked out of the cafe quietly. They had been in there quite a while, and after Mrs Hudson had calmed down, Sherlock had told them all how he'd faked his death. Lestrade had laughed it off eventually, saying that if anyone could fake his own death, it would've had to be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had also accepted Sally's apology, which John thought very strange. It was completely unlike Sherlock to forgive anyone, he thought it tedious, and yet, he had sat with Sally while she cried and apologized. She'd explained that she'd only ever been so cruel to him because she was jealous of him, and couldn't understand how he could know the things that he knew. It was obvious that Sherlock had thought it very primary school, but he forgave her anyway. Anderson hadn't really said much, but he also apologized to Sherlock, and listened intently, as they all did, when Sherlock told his story.

As they walked down the street, Sherlock lifted up his collar, something John had missed seeing so much that he could have cried out in happiness. He saw the sunlight bouncing off Sherlock's curls, and the way that the light hit his eyes, and knew that he had to tell him something.

"I'm proud of you, you know," John said, without even turning to look at Sherlock. He could practically hear the consulting detective's confusion, so he continued, "For what happened in there. I know you didn't really want to do that today, but you did so well, and . . . you've really changed, Sherlock. You . . . I'm just so proud of how far you've come."

"It's only thanks to you, John." Sherlock replied, and both men smiled widely, but tried to hide it from the other, as they made their way back to 221B Baker Street.

* * *

The next day, there was an article in the newspaper that caught John's attention, and he grinned as he showed it to Sherlock. _Finally, _the world knew the truth;

_SHERLOCK HOLMES, CONSULTING DETECTIVE: ALIVE!_

**_Just last year, many people watched in horror, as it was revealed that famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was a fake. And not only that, but then he killed himself by jumping off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital in London, apparently because of the guilt caused by his lies._**

_But last night, Mr Sherlock Holmes himself came into our offices, alive, to tell us his amazing story, starting with the day that he faked his death. And even more shocking, the "actor" that Holmes apparently "hired" to pretend to be mastermind criminal James Moriarty, was in fact, _actually _James Moriarty. Moriarty had planned for a while to get rid of Holmes, and this plan came to a head last year. He somehow managed to convince the police force that Holmes was a fake, using only a kidnapping case, and a few fake documents._

_Amazingly though, his best friend, flatmate, and accomplice Mr John Watson (MD), still stood by him. Even when everybody else in the world had given up on him, John still believed in his best friend. Still, this was not enough to convince the police force, and Holmes knew this. After realizing what he was going to have to do, Holmes enlisted the help of a friend who worked at the hospital (who cannot be named for legal reasons), who helped him to fake his death._

_Once all of his preparations were in place, he managed to get Moriarty onto the roof of the hospital, completely unaware of what Holmes had planned. After threatening the consulting detective's friends, Moriarty then shot himself, making Holmes' plan even easier to complete. He knew Moriarty's assassins were still watching, and so he jumped from the roof, landed on a truck below, covered himself in blood stolen from the morgue, and lay down on the pavement. John Watson had been watching all of this from a distance, as Holmes had insisted._

_When they talk about it now, it is easy to see how much John Watson and Sherlock Holmes missed each other. Their friendship truly is a beautiful one, and their story truly inspiring, for, even after Sherlock's death, John never stopped believing in him. We know now of course that Sherlock was never a fake, and it was all an elaborate lie created by a mad man. Some people believe that Moriarty is still alive today, even though his body was found at the top of the roof, and buried after. It is still unknown why he shot himself._

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**So? I would just like to assure you, Moriarty is NOT coming back in this story, just in case any of you were worried about that!**

**REVIEW PLEASE!**


	8. Chapter Eight: The Book

**Hey guys!**

**So sorry for the late update. (If this is, in fact, late.) I had to change the last chapter slightly because I realized (thanks to you wonderful people!), that I had put Mrs Hudson not knowing about Sherlock in the last chapter, when, in fact, she had been the one to let Sherlock into the flat in the first chapter! Oops! I could spend all day coming up with excuses, but I'd rather just get on with it!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and . . . we're almost there! I have two more chapters planned after this one, so it's really not far away at all! I'm sort of proud, because this will be the first fan fic that I have finished in . . . a while! I have a tendency not to finish things, but I was determined to finish this, so, hopefully it paid off!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

* * *

John knocked on the door sternly, wanting to get this over with as fast as he could. It was a cold winter's morning, and he could see his breath as he sighed impatiently, stood outside his therapist's office. Stood beside him, was a surprisingly un-irritated Sherlock. It was strange, but it seemed that there wasn't a lot that could irritate Sherlock recently. Yes, he was . . . upset seemed the wrong word . . . downhearted that he didn't have any cases to work. But besides that, for him, he'd been in a generally good mood. He was up before John every morning, sat at the table, smiling at him from behind the paper. He didn't complain when John wanted to watch his "dull" programmes on the television. It wasn't Sherlock's usual behaviour, but then, John couldn't exactly say that he didn't like it. He couldn't deny that Sherlock had changed since coming back. Maybe that was one of the changes?

While they stood in the cold morning air, John turned to look at his best friend. It felt wrong to call Sherlock his _best friend. _It wasn't that he wasn't his best friend, it was that he was so much _more. _There was no real word for what Sherlock was to him. He wasn't his friend, or companion. He wasn't his best friend, he wasn't even like a brother to him. He was . . . he was just _Sherlock. _There really was no word for it. He was the only person who knew John better than anybody else. He knew _everything _about him, even the things he tried too hard to hide. Even the things that . . . that John hadn't known himself. He made John a better person. A stronger person, and John made _him _better. He made him more human. Sherlock was the only person who truly accepted John. And he'd picked him up, the broken man that he had been, and never gave up on him. And in the same way, John never gave up on Sherlock. He always believed in him, even when nobody else did. So . . . what was the word for that? John didn't think it really mattered that much. If something was that important and unique, and . . . special, it didn't need a label.

Sherlock had obviously noticed John staring at him, and John was suddenly very aware of what he'd been doing. Whilst he'd been thinking, he had turned to face Sherlock directly, and had been stood, with his hands in his pockets, head tilted to the side, staring at Sherlock, open-mouthed. He suddenly shook his head, and darted his eyes away quickly, but then he couldn't help looking back. He gave Sherlock an awkward and nervous smile, and Sherlock smiled back. Except that his smile was a brilliant, and genuine one, which made John incredibly relieved.

Just as he was about to apologize for staring, the door opened, and his therapist Paula stood in the doorway. She looked between John and Sherlock, looking pleasantly surprised and confused. Sherlock stepped forward, and extended his hand to the young woman.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself, as Paula took his hand slowly, looking amused. "I don't believe we've met. Though I'm sure you've heard _lots _about me."

Paula laughed lightly, and stepped back into the doorway, inviting them both in. She turned to John as he came through the door. "I see you weren't joking when you told me how arrogant he was," she laughed again, and Sherlock turned back to glare at John jokingly.

* * *

"Thank you very much, Paula, you have helped me _so _much," John whispered, as he shook Paula's hand for the last time. He had just signed the final documents to say that he no longer required her services, and he was now saying his goodbyes. They were stood in Paula's spacious office, and Sherlock was pacing round slowly, picking up random objects and placing them back exactly where they'd already been. They'd talked for a while, all three of them, discussing John's options, and whether leaving therapy was best for him, but once Paula saw how well John was doing now that Sherlock was back, she had no choice but to let him go. Even she couldn't deny the amazing results caused by Sherlock's return.

"You're more than welcome, John," Paula replied, still shaking John's hand warmly. "Everyone needs a little help from time to time." She smiled, and John felt glad that he'd had her to help him. If Mycroft hadn't suggested he go back to her after Sherlock's death, he didn't know what he would have done. Yes, that year had been terrible for him, but if he hadn't gone to therapy, if he hadn't had Paula to talk to, it probably would have been a lot worse.

John let go of Paula's hand, and walked over to Sherlock, indicating that they should leave. They both smiled at Paula slowly, and made their way towards the door, before she shouted;

"Wait! Mr Holmes, could I . . . have a word?" she asked, and both men turned back, confused. "It's just . . . I have a few questions, just about John's health, you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, though he could tell that Paula was lying. Her stance said that she was nervous, and her hand lay upon a leather-bound book on her desk, indicating that her reason for wanting to talk to him had something to do with that. The fact that she was only mentioning this now, also suggested it was something that she had debated about telling him throughout the entire conversation. And she had waited until they were almost out of the door, until she couldn't stop herself. To most people, it would seem like she had just forgotten until the last minute, but Sherlock knew that something like that would have been included on the forms that she had filled in, so she couldn't have possibly forgotten about it. So, whatever it was that she wanted to tell him, she didn't want John to be there.

"Of course. John, you can go back to the flat. I have a few errands to run after, so I'll get a cab back." Sherlock said, without even turning to look at John. He was intrigued as to what it was that Paula wanted to tell him. It must be important, if she was this nervous, and didn't want John to overhear. "Alright?"

John nodded slowly, and took one last look at Paula, before leaving. Once they had both heard the door slam, Paula gestured for Sherlock to sit down in her client chair, and he hesitantly did so. He could have made many comments about the state of the chair, and the many things that her sitting position suggested, but he didn't. It was about John, and it was important, so he _had _to know. No interruptions, no deductions. There was no time for that. For the first time in his life, Sherlock was worried for another person. It seemed there were a lot of firsts where Sherlock and John were concerned. Sherlock was the first one to take an interest in John. John was the first person to understand Sherlock. John was the first person that Sherlock had ever cared about, and Sherlock had been the first person to ever destroy John's world entirely.

"I think you should take a look at these," Paula muttered, obviously still wondering if she had made the right decision. She looked down at the wooden floorboards, as she handed Sherlock a thick, leather-bound book. It looked pretty plain to Sherlock, though incredibly used. It was scratched and worn, and had a white label on the front, with _John Watson _scrawled across it. So it was her notes on her sessions with John, presumably. Sherlock took a moment to flick through the pages. The paper was quite old, so it was _all _of her sessions with John, from the very beginning, then. Despite the scrawling of the name on the front, everything inside was very neatly written, so it was obvious that she hadn't just written the sessions as they had happened. She'd taken notes during, and written out a neat version after. Not a very common technique for a therapist, but still a smart one. The first date in the book was 4th October 2009, which was almost a year before John met Sherlock. And the last date was . . . 14th November 2012, about a week before Sherlock had returned.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "May I keep this? You undoubtedly have a copy on your computer, as you've clearly opened this many times, and turned over the corners of pages that you hadn't typed out yet. Plus, I can see that you have a folder on your computer desktop labelled; patients."

Paula nodded in answer, and Sherlock sprang up from the chair. He bid his goodbyes, and practically ran out of the therapist's office. He desperately wanted to know what had happened in John's sessions that had been so important. It was very rare that a therapist kept her sessions documented like this, so there must have been something about John's progress that interested her. He bounded out of the door, and got a cab. The driver pulled up, and Sherlock jumped in quickly. He told him the address, and to go the long way. He then opened the book, and began reading.

* * *

After skim-reading almost every entry in the book, there were four entries that stuck out to Sherlock, all almost years apart. These entries interested him the most, and he had folded the corners of the pages over when he had first seen them. They were also the longest entries, and the most detailed. Not to mention they were probably the most important stages of John's life in the past few years. Sherlock leaned back in his seat, opened up the book to the first marked entry, and began to read.

_4th October 2009_

_It was John Watson's first therapy session with me. He came in, and he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was a sad smile. It was empty. It had no meaning. He used his cane to limp to a chair, though it didn't seem as if he had much difficulty walking. The limp's probably psychosomatic. He'd just come back from the war in Afghanistan, and though he said at first that it hadn't affected him, I could tell that it has. He wouldn't talk about it at all, and he's clearly haunted by what happened in the war. All he told me was that he got shot, in the shoulder. He never mentioned the cane, never mentioned any leg injury, so the limp is most definitely psychosomatic._

_He did mention his nightmares. He always dreams of the war, every night, and always wakes up in fear. He has post-traumatic stress disorder. He needs a distraction from the war, from the memories. He's living on his own at the moment, which is even worse for his current mental state. He told me that his life has no meaning any more, and I suggested writing a blog, but he said that nothing happens to him, he has nothing to write about. He's clearly a very broken human being. He needs something to come along and brighten up his life. I suggested support groups, to meet new people, but he's too closed off. I fear that he might never recover from the horrors of the war._

_10th April 2010_

_John came in looking happy today. Extremely happy, in fact. He told me that he's met someone. A friend. At first, it made me a little worried. John has never mentioned any friends before, but then he told me about him, and I could see the obvious change in his mood. He told me about this man, this . . . Sherlock Holmes. He told me that they share a flat together. It was almost a little hard to believe. It's been almost two months since his last session. He pretty much comes whenever he wants, or whenever I call him in. It was a complete change from the man I saw at our last appointment._

_He'd put on more weight, which is good, because he was looking particularly thin last time. He smiled a lot more, even when he was telling me all the irritating things that Sherlock does. He doesn't use the cane any more, and that's also down to Sherlock, as he tells me. As far as I can tell, this friend of his is a sort of genius. He's a consulting detective who has taken John on as his assistant. Last session, I wouldn't have thought that going to crime scenes would be the best thing for John, but this friendship with Sherlock seems to have helped him a lot. I could almost say that he missed the war before._

_He's a completely different person now, and I might even say that he doesn't need therapy anymore. It's incredible. The way that this man has . . . changed his life. He turned him into a whole person again. If I ever meet this Sherlock Holmes, I will give him my thanks._

_20th January 2012_

_It's John's first therapy session for about eighteen months now. And I thought he was doing fine, until I read the papers three months ago. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, died. He jumped from the roof of a hospital, whilst John watched. John was the last person to talk to Sherlock before he jumped, and I can tell that was hard for him. Sherlock called him before jumping. John's having a hard time dealing with that. A very hard time._

_It's like we're just back to the beginning again, but it's worse. So much worse. I thought John was broken before, but I've never quite seen him like this. He told me he hasn't left the house since, only to visit Sherlock's grave. He could barely even speak. Every time he tried, it came out choked. He could hardly even accept that Sherlock's gone. He told me how he still waits for him to come back. How he sits, watching the door, waiting. And then, breaks down when he realizes he's not coming back._

_I suggested moving out of the flat, but he told me that he would never. He said it's the one thing that still reminds him of Sherlock. The _real _Sherlock. He said the newspaper stories are all lies, and I believe him. I can tell he was in love with Sherlock, now. It's quite obvious, and it breaks my heart. I've never seen a client look so destroyed. His life is in ruins, over one man. I've never seen someone have this much impact on another person's life. I didn't ask him if he loved him. He was'nt ready to talk about it. But I did make sure we have weekly sessions from now on._

_14th November 2012_

_I called John in this time. Our next session was supposed to be in a few days, but this couldn't wait. Because he finally admitted it. I saw it on his blog. He's said that he loved Sherlock, and I called him in to talk about it. He was very quiet at first, he didn't want to talk about it. But I encouraged him, and he realized that he had to say it out loud. We talked about what he was going to do, and how I could help him._

_We talked about Sherlock too. I thought it would help him. But he's truly broken this time. He's in pieces over Sherlock's death, and he told me how hard it is for him to get up every morning. He said he doesn't see the point in living if Sherlock's not. And I don't think he's going to try for much longer. John's never talked about suicide, and he's never outright said how things affect him, but he did today. He said it feels like there's a hole, and it can't be filled. He said it's like having a part of him missing, and he can't find it. I honestly don't think I can help him anymore, I don't think anyone can._

_It's not right to give up on a patient, and I'm not going to, but I've never seen someone in such deep misery._

Sherlock closed the book with a snap. He'd read quite enough. He hadn't noticed, but his eyes had teared up a little. Reading about how John felt during his death . . . he'd known it had affected him badly, of course, but he hadn't known it was quite _that _bad. He'd never known that John had thought of taking his own life. He hadn't known that John felt his life wasn't worth living if Sherlock wasn't in it. And that thought made Sherlock very scared. If he hadn't read that blog entry, if he hadn't come back . . . John could have . . . It sounded, in the book, that John was probably going to . . . do it, very soon.

No one should ever have to feel like that. Not over someone as selfish, arrogant and cold as him. The thought of John ever . . . not being there, because of _him, _it made Sherlock feel sick. John was _so _important to him, in a way that no one else had ever been. He was always there for Sherlock, even when he thought he didn't need him. He believed in him when no one else in the _world _did. And he was . . . he was _everything. _Sherlock couldn't believe it had taken this long for him to figure it out, but he was. John Watson was everything that he cared about, and _his _life had been worthless without John in it.

Sherlock was struck with the overwhelming urge to show John just how important he was. How much he mattered, how much Sherlock . . . _loved _him. _Loved _him? _Is that right? _Sherlock thought to himself, _do I love him? . . . Is this what it feels like? God it's . . . it's awful, and yet . . . it's wonderful! _Sherlock didn't know what was going on. He felt funny . . . he felt like he was being _pulled _towards John, like he had to get to him right that second. And, before he could stop himself, he shouted to the cab driver to get to 221B as fast as he could. He had something very important to tell John.

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**Well? What did you think? REVIEW PLEASE! I will try to be as quick as I can with the next chapter, because I know that's quite a big cliff-hanger to leave you on!**


	9. Chapter Nine: Love

**Hey guys!**

**So . . . not sure how many of you guys are actually still reading this, but I want to finish it all the same. I'd just like to ask, if you are reading this, _please _take the time to review. It lets me know that somebody's actually reading what I'm writing. The last chapter didn't get a lot of views, and it got no reviews at all. So, if you like it, or even if you don't, please review!**

**Technically, this is the last chapter, but there will be an epilogue!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

* * *

Sherlock could see 221B Baker Street coming up around the corner, and he could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He had never been more nervous in his life. His stomach was in knots, and he couldn't fathom it at all. He couldn't wrap his head around why he was so nervous. John obviously returned his feelings, he'd made that clear already, so what was it? Maybe it was the fact that he had never loved someone before. He didn't know what the common etiquette was for this sort of thing. Should he text John first? Let him know, and then make some kind of a dramatic entrance? In the movies though, the characters seemed to just act on impulse. They would just run up to their beloved, and kiss them. It was probably the clearest way to show feelings. There couldn't really be any confusion.

But Sherlock had never kissed anyone before. He didn't know how to . . . to . . . well, he knew the basic science of it. It came with the having to understand how love and relationships worked. It was quite simple, really. _Kissing is a complex behaviour that requires significant muscle coordination. It involves a total of thirty-four facial muscles, and one-hundred and twelve postural muscles. In the case of a French kiss, the tongue is also an important component. It has been noted that increasing the amount of kissing in a relationship results in a reduction of dress, and increase in relationship satisfaction. It can also cause the adrenal glands to release epinephrine and nor-epinephrine, which causes an adrenaline rush. And in other experiments, a passionate kiss can burn up to 2-3 calories per minute._ - Sherlock shook his head. None of that information was helpful to him at all. For the first time in his life, everything he knew was useless.

He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. How could he not notice that he was in love with someone? With _John? _Surely that was something that one should be aware of! But John had just sort of . . . snuck up on him. And, when he thought about it, he'd been so miserable without John. Although he didn't have to live thinking John was dead, it had still been almost as hard for him as it had for John. He hadn't been eating or sleeping properly, and he didn't think of anything but John, or killing Moriarty's assassins. He hadn't turned on the TV, for fear of seeing something about John, and he hadn't read the papers. It was like he'd been living a half-life for a year, and he hadn't even noticed.

Maybe it was because, before John, Sherlock _had _been living a half-life. He had been a very different person. Not even a person at all really. He had seen what love could do to people. It was harsh, and cruel. It burned and cut. It was pain. So he closed himself off, told himself that alone was better. Except, it wasn't. Somehow, alone was worse. It was . . . cold. That was the only word that Sherlock could think of to describe it. It was just . . . cold. When he was with John he felt . . . happiness, and . . . warmth, and . . . a sense of belonging. A sense of _home. _And he found that he just couldn't help smiling around him. It was like they were two halves of the same person. They knew anything and everything that there was to know about each other, no exceptions. And they just . . . they had an understanding. Sherlock had never known a stronger bond than what he had with John.

He could see his hands shaking, as the cab driver pulled up outside the flat. Suddenly, his vision became very blurry, and Sherlock felt very detached. He heard the driver say that they'd arrived, but he sounded so far away. He had to take a few, shaky breaths, before he could get out of the cab. He tossed a bunch of notes from his pocket to the driver and muttered that he could "keep the change". He could hear his heartbeat again, and he sighed as the car pulled away. This was it. This was the moment that John had waited for almost a year. Sherlock was finally going to confess that he was in love with his jumper-wearing flatmate.

Somehow, that made him even more nervous. John had waited so long for this moment. What if it wasn't everything that he had imagined? What if, like most other things, Sherlock messed it up? What if he was too harsh, too honest, too forceful about it? He'd never been in love before, and he wasn't sure how one would go about confessing such a thing. And what would John want him to do? As Sherlock reached the door, it occurred to him. It didn't really matter how he did it. If John really loved him, and he really loved John, it shouldn't matter how they announced it. Just that they loved each other. Sappy, romantic speeches and hard, crushing kisses weren't important. All that mattered was that John knew. Because he had waited long enough.

The door had been left open, by John himself, no doubt. Sherlock opened it quietly. He didn't want John to know that he was there yet. Not because he wasn't going to talk to him, but just because it would give him the time to calm himself on the way upstairs. He could take his time. He closed the door behind him, making sure it still didn't make a sound. He crept across the carpeted floor slowly, and was surprised to find that he was no longer scared, more, excited. He was pumped full of adrenalin. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest for how fast it was beating, and he found his fingers were twitching in anticipation. He wanted John, he wanted to tell him. He wanted him to know. _Now._

So he walked quickly, but still quietly up the stairs. It was quite easy to do that without making too much noise, as Sherlock knew exactly which steps and which parts of those steps would creak and which wouldn't. He'd spent a substantial amount of time on _that_ particular experiment. All in all, it took him about twenty seconds to get up both flights of stairs, without making a sound. Because he was being so quiet, he could hear John inside, muttering to himself. Sherlock couldn't make out what he was saying, but by the way that his voice was travelling, he could guess that John was stood in the living room, looking out of the window. It was possible that he already knew that Sherlock was there, but he doubted it. He would have come downstairs to greet him.

He crept into the living room, and saw John was, in fact, standing, looking out of the window. Sherlock would have been congratulating himself on another correct deduction, but he was so full of adrenalin that he couldn't really focus that well. He walked over to John, trying to make as little sound as possible, and still debating whether to kiss him or not. He was amazed that John hadn't heard him walking over, which meant he must have been incredibly engrossed in his thoughts. So much so that he didn't even noticed when Sherlock was stood right behind him.

_"John." _Sherlock whispered in his ear, and was slightly amused when he saw how much John jumped. _Very _engrossed in thought, then. The smaller man turned around to look at him, and he smiled a little. Sherlock had decided not to kiss him. It was probably best said through words. They were the thing that Sherlock was best with. True, he was good with working out _other _people's actions, but he wasn't so good with them himself. Reactions relied on human impulses and emotions, something he wasn't _that _good with. "I've got something to tell you."

John just looked stunned. Sherlock hadn't even told him yet, so that was an odd reaction. All of a sudden, the consulting detective became _very _aware of how close they were. Their chests were almost touching, and he found his heart was beating even faster (was that even possible?), due to the close proximity. If he took one step closer, John would be able to feel Sherlock's heartbeat on his chest. And Sherlock didn't want that. Though he was learning to accept them, he still found human emotions crippling, and admitting them was going to be hard for him. So he strode to the other side of the room, making sure that John could no longer feel his heartbeat, and couldn't see the emotions behind his eyes. He didn't even look at John when he said it. He was facing away from him, with his hands behind his back.

"I think I love you." he said. Finally, it was out. It felt like such a relief for Sherlock, like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders. He almost gave a sigh of relief, except that, he didn't have time to.

Before he could even register what was happening, he felt a strong grip on his arm whip him round. And he was looking into John's eyes once more. Sherlock tried to convey as much sincerity as he could. He wanted John to know that he _meant _it. Well. John didn't need much convincing, as, a few seconds later, he was pressing his lips to Sherlock's in a rough kiss. It only took a fraction of a second for Sherlock to respond. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he wrapped his arms around John, trying to bring him closer. He didn't think he'd ever be able to be close _enough. _They kissed with all of the desperation and misery that had filled their lives for the past year, and didn't hold back. They put everything into that kiss, and Sherlock had never felt anything more wonderful.

* * *

**Well? You can have that as your ending if you want, but the next chapter will be the epilogue. REVIEW PLLEEEEEASEEEE! I can't stress enough how much I need you to review, just to know that you guys are reading this!**


	10. Epilogue

**Hey guys!**

**Well, here we are, on the last chapter (technically)! Can't believe it's finally over! And that I actually managed to finish it! I don't tend to actually finish my fanfics, so this is quite a big achievement for me! Well, I'd just like to thank you all for reviewing and following! I couldn't type up everyone that followed, but I could type up all of you that reviewed, so I just wanted to thank you all! **

**AmeliaGarrett, Jazzcat1231, Goldpen, mnm-343, booklover 613, A Girl With An Idea, johnsarmylady, Eryberrie, SnarryPuckurt, Orchfan, YaoiIsMyDrug, DuShiZhi, , Luicuiones725, Marye, Slytherclawlockd, 3star, bookworm0902, Teamo-Seto (Arija), Pinlie, Fanficaddict, JustBeAQueen, and ToTheShore. **

**I would like to thank booklover 613, johnsarmylady, Eryberrie, Orchfan, DuShiZhi, 3star, and Teamo-Seto (Arija) especially, for more than one review, it really helped, thanks! **

**Well, I'm not going to keep you any longer, so . . . enjoy!**

**Megz**

**oxox**

**P.S. I listened to this song, all the way through writing this, and it got me in the right mood for writing it, so, if you want to, you should listen to this song whilst reading;**

**All I Need by Within Temptation :)**

* * *

_Epilogue: _

That was not the end of the wonderful and strange relationship between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. No. In fact, that was _only _the beginning. In the years to come, they would solve more cases together than ever before, and were much better at it together than apart. They were much better as people as well, when they were together. Sherlock pushed John to do more exciting and dangerous things, and although John would never admit it, he had missed the adventure of it all. And John pushed Sherlock to be more human, and do more "normal" things, though he had told Sherlock before that he wouldn't have him any other way.

It took a while to get people to accept that they were "together" though, but that was to be expected. It didn't bother them though. When they saw Anderson and Donovan sniggering when they came along, or other people's shocked faces. It didn't matter. It had taken them so long to get back to each other, a few people's judging stares didn't affect them in the slightest. All that mattered was that they were together. Nobody else mattered.

And it was like that whenever they were around each other. They never saw anybody else. It was like it was just the two of them, and the whole world just fell away. And when they were in the flat, when they were alone, they would talk to each other for hours. Just talk, nothing else. It took a while to get Sherlock to do the "standard" couple-y things, but John didn't mind at all. They took their relationship slowly, and didn't rush anything. Sherlock was still discovering what "being in a relationship" really meant, and John was more than happy to show him.

After almost a year of being together, they had established what their relationship was, and were both happy with it. They would no longer introduce each other as "my flatmate", "my friend", or "my assistant", they would introduce each other as "my boyfriend". John noticed that Sherlock liked the idea of that, and took as many opportunities as he could to tell people they were together. But he didn't mind. He had waited at least a year for this wonderful man, and if he was happy, so was John.

And as the years went by, their relationship remained the same. They still solved cases, they still lived at 221B, and they still loved each other, very much. But Sherlock started to wonder if there was something missing, something more that the relationship needed. They had done all the simple things, and they both knew that they loved each other, but there was something _more. _Just that one little step further. He asked Mrs Hudson about it, and, of course, she gave him the answer he was looking for.

So, at six o'clock, on a Saturday, sat in their flat, on the sofa, Sherlock Holmes _proposed _to John Watson. Of course, there was a bit of crying on John's part, which he did try to hide. He said yes of course, and the next few months were spent with many an argument about the wedding. The date, the guests, the venue. In the end, they had to call in for Molly's help, as trying to plan a wedding with Sherlock was one of the most impossible things John had ever attempted. Mrs Hudson joked that it is only in the period of engagement that you see how angry your other half can _really _get.

When they had made all the decisions on the wedding, the rest of their engagement passed in a happy blur. Although Molly had to do most of the planning, it had taken the stress off of the two men, as they had been unable to agree on _anything. _At first, John had been unsure about Molly planning their wedding, what with her past feelings for Sherlock, and everything. But she had assured him that her feelings were entirely gone, and that she'd actually met someone else, who she planned on bringing to the wedding. Sherlock's only advice to her was to make sure that he wasn't a consulting criminal this time.

And on the 23rd of December, John and Sherlock finally got married. It was Sherlock who had decided on the winter wedding, it was the only idea that he was instant that Molly should keep. It was John that had taught him to love Christmas, as he'd always thought it was a selfish and pointless holiday, so he thought it was important it was included in a day they would remember for the rest of their lives. When they had looked out at the crowd of people watching them say their vows, they were looking at all of their friends and family, everyone who had every mattered, and everyone who always would. Mycroft was there, of course, and Lestrade. Mrs Hudson was at the front, wearing a particularly eye-catching hat, next to Molly and her new boyfriend, who threw confetti at the end, and even Donovan and Anderson attended, though not together.

It was a wonderful ceremony, and afterwards, everyone was taken to a nearby hotel for the reception. And years later, John could still remember his wedding speech;

_"I know a lot of you here today know that Sherlock Holmes is particularly hard man to, um . . . take on. He can be loud, obnoxious, annoying, lazy, complicated, over-confident, arrogant, rude, a know-it-all . . . you know I could go on, but I think you get the point. Anyway, that's what I first thought when I met him. I thought, how am I _ever _going to share a flat with this . . . insufferable man? But then . . . then he showed me, such wonderful . . . amazing things, things I never could have imagined. He showed me . . . adventure, and mystery, and . . . friendship. He changed my life. Before I met him, I was . . . a broken human being, not even a human being at all, really, but then he showed me what it was to _live _again. Just to rip it away from me a few years later._

_I thought I'd never forgive him for leaving me. For . . . dying. But then, he came back, and I can tell you I've never been more happy in my entire life. Well . . . besides today. Because I get to spend the rest of my life with this brilliant, wonderful, amazing, strange, beautiful, life-changing sociopath, and I wouldn't have it any other way."_

After that day, John and Sherlock were even more inseparable than before. They never moved out of 221B, and they went everywhere together. It was like the two gold wedding bands around their fingers had connected them, for life. And a few years after their wedding, they adopted a little baby boy. And they named him Matthew. Matthew Watson-Holmes. And they cared for him more than their own lives. They gave up the crime solving for a while, though still offered their input on things. And when Matthew was old enough, they made their own private detective agency, which they kept up until their old age.

And when Matthew had grown up, married, and had children of his own, John and Sherlock stayed together, right up until their very last days, which they spent in 221B. They talked about the times they had together, and when they'd first met. They laughed about all the things they had done, and spoke about how they had done so much more in their lives than anybody else probably ever had. And when they breathed their last breaths, they looked at each other, and they smiled. They weren't afraid of death, they approached it like you would an old friend. They weren't scared, because they were doing it together. They were dying together, like they should. Together, or not at all. They were ready for death, they had lead long, and happy lives. And as long as they had each other, nothing else mattered.

* * *

**Well . . . I guess that's it. This was probably the easiest chapter for me to write, as I knew exactly how I wanted this story to end. Thank you for all of your support, and for following my story.**

**:)**


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